


Opus Amore

by Skylee



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha!Sam, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Case Fic, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, omega!dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-24
Updated: 2014-07-03
Packaged: 2018-01-20 15:24:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 31,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1515428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skylee/pseuds/Skylee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean go undercover at a couples retreat for Alphas and their Omegas to root out a monster. Dean hates being an Omega so the fact that he'll have to openly be one and stop taking his suppressants pisses him off. Still, the more they pretend to be a happy Omega and Alpha couple, the more he starts to think that maybe being an Omega isn't so bad, not if Sam is his Alpha..</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day One

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [【翻译】Opus Amore](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6930589) by [Ultravioletandwave](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ultravioletandwave/pseuds/Ultravioletandwave), [WincestJ2CN](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WincestJ2CN/pseuds/WincestJ2CN)



Written for [this](http://spnkink-meme.livejournal.com/84092.html?thread=31535484#t31535484) prompt on spnkink-meme.

 

 

“This is ridiculous, I’m not doing it.” Dean’s still fussing with his collar, twisting it around his neck. He still can’t believe Sam’s actually persuaded him to go along with this – two weeks playing the dutiful Omega, it’s going to be absolute hell.

“You promised, Dean,” calls Sam from outside the bathroom – Dean locked the door, no way is his brother going to see him all collared-up until the absolute last minute – “and people are dying. This is important.” The tone of his voice is slightly pleading, and dean feels a tiny spark of guilt.

Four people are dead – two Alphas, two Omegas. Killed at the Opus Amore holiday resort, an incredibly expensive ‘luxury retreat’ specifically for Alpha/Omega couples. To Dean, the idea of going undercover, mingling with the type of people who think going to a place like this is actually going to be fun rather than complete torture, it’s… well, he thought of hell already. Can’t get much worse than that.

Taking a deep breath, he swings the door open. Predictably, Sam is standing right outside and has to jump away to avoid being hit in the face.

“Well?” asks Dean, trying to sound nonchalant, “how do I look?” he expects Sam to laugh in his face, seeing his brother wearing a collar like a good little bitch, but instead Sam gives him a slightly strange look and swallows audibly.

“You look fine,” he says eventually, uncharacteristically quiet. “C’mon, let’s go. Don’t wanna be late.”

The Beta girl at the check-in is irritatingly perky. Dean might have tried to chat her up under normal circumstances, but Sam’s hand is resting against the back of his neck – he’s being gentle, but that’s only annoying Dean more. The fact that he can’t just shove his brother away is making his skin itch with irritation.

“Welcome to the Opus Amore resort!” the Beta chirps. “Do you have a reservation?”

While Sam handles the details – obviously Dean isn’t expected to say anything, his Alpha is in charge here ( _and everywhere else too_ , a nasty little voice in his brain reminds him) – Dean looks around at their fellow holiday makers with ill-concealed contempt.

An expensively-dressed Alpha woman, furs, diamonds and all, has a pretty-looking boy, who can’t be more than 19, tucked tight against her while she laughs with a barrel-chested Alpha man. His Omega – even younger-looking and rather overwhelmed – has been left on one of the plush couches that line the enormous reception. He keeps glancing over at his Alpha nervously, one leg jittering. On the other side of the room, another Alpha woman is petting her own Omega, a pixieish redhead who looks to be about Sam’s age. She’s staring up at her Alpha with an expression of such adoration that it makes Dean feel slightly nauseous.

 _So_ , he thinks to himself. _These are the people I’ll be spending the next two weeks with. Fan-fucking tastic._

 

 

As much as he hates everything about this place and what it stands for, Dean has to admit that it is, without doubt, the nicest place he has ever stayed in. Each light fixture probably costs enough to keep the Impala in gas for a year, and that’s not even mentioning the place’s weird obsession with fountains.

Yeah, Dean could get used to living in a place like this, as out of place as it makes him feel. But they’re not here for a holiday. Four people are dead, and they have no idea why. Sam’s tentative questions at the check-in were met with a firm brush-off and a cheerful “nothing to worry about, sir!” from the perky Beta (Dean really _, really_ hates her, unfair as he knows he’s being). From what he’s overheard from a few hushed conversations amongst the staff (being seen as completely insignificant is definitely an advantage when eavesdropping), they think it’s drugs.

They’ve gotten absolutely nowhere by the time they get to their room. It takes about half an hour just to walk there, and Dean’s pretty sure they still haven’t arrived when Sam says, “Okay, this is it,” and drops down their bags.

It’s huge. Living room (complete with roaring log fire – fake of course, it’s California), bathroom with a Jacuzzi big enough for eight. The décor is white and gold, not quite ostentatious but certainly a thousand times fancier than it needs to be, in Dean’s opinion. Everything’s gleaming like it gets polished three times a day (and it probably does – God, how are they going to avoid the hordes of staff this place obviously uses?), gold and crystals splashed all over the place.

Dean edges past the fountain (this one has a mermaid in the centre, Jesus Christ) and into the bedroom. The bedroom looks straight out a porno, albeit a classy one. At least it doesn’t have a mirrored ceiling, but there’s still a big problem that he’d briefly considered before the whole ridiculous charade started, before shoving it to the back of his mind.

There’s only one bed. It’s a huge bed, sure, but if there’s one line Dean really didn’t want to cross…

                “Dude, there is no way I’m sharing a bed with you – this whole thing is weird enough.” Deep down though, Dean knows it’s stupid to argue. Sam seems to have taken the whole ‘Alpha-in-charge’ thing to heart, steering Dean around even when there’s no one around to be faking it for. For some reason it’s started to become less annoying and more… strangely comforting. Not that he’ll ever say that to Sam, of course.

                “Not like we haven’t shared a bed before,” says Sam cheerfully, flopping down on the bed. They haven’t shared a bed since they were preteens, but Dean decides not to mention that. “Wow this feels incredible. Lie down, dude.” It isn’t an order, but it feels like one, so Dean very firmly walks two paces away and sits on the floor, pulling his revolver out to clean. Sam rolls over on his side and looks at him. Dean very carefully doesn’t meet his eyes.

                “Look, I know this is hard for you,” says Sam, now using the with-deepest-sympathy voice he usually reserves for interviewing traumatised witnesses.

                “Bullshit,” snaps Dean, still not looking up. He knows that if he does Sam will have that ridiculous hurt puppy face on. “It’s not like I haven’t played this part before. It’s fine.” The last part is a lie (although Dean keeps furiously telling himself that it isn’t, everything’s fine, _totally_ fine, he can deal), but it’s true that he has done this before. With his suppressants, he can usually pass as a Beta, but it doesn’t always work. There’s always someone who can see right through him, and the difference in the way he’s treated is something he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to. Still, it comes in handy sometimes. If people (or monsters) think you’re harmless, it’s that much easier to get the drop on them, no matter how humiliating it might be.

Dean doesn’t know which is worse, the times when he’s been alone, when Alphas have realised what he really is and tried their luck _(“aw what’s wrong, Pretty, don’t wanna play with us?”_ ) or when Sam’s been with him and he’s been ignored completely, assumed to just be tagging along, poor little Omega who can’t be left alone without his Alpha to look after him.

 

Sam’s still looking at him, but he clearly senses that Dean isn’t going to budge, so he sighs and pulls out the program they got from check-in.

                “There’s a formal dinner tonight,” he says, “after drinks and canapés.”  He pauses, suddenly hesitant. “We should go, it’s be a good opportunity to-“

                “No fuckin’ way, Sam,” growls Dean. “I’m not spending any more time with these dicks than I absolutely have to.”

                “I thought it was fine.” Sam’s back to sympathetic, and Dean tosses his revolver down. He can’t concentrate anyway.

                “It is fine!” Dean finally looks up at Sam (yep, he was right, puppy eyes in full effect). “I just don’t wanna-“ he pauses, grinding his teeth. “You know what? We’ll go. We’ll go to this formal dinner with a bunch of rich assholes and their pathetic little fucktoys, and you can have a great time pretending to be another rich asshole and won’t it be fuckin’ fantastic. Can’t wait.” With that, he pushes himself up and storms off to the bathroom. He’s crying now, but it’s fine. It’s just tears, not like he’s sobbing or anything like that. He’s off his suppressants, after all. He probably just isn’t used to the change in hormones. He’s fine.

 

Dean doesn’t grumble at all on the way down to dinner. In fact, he’s as silent as possible. Sam keeps shooting him worried looks, but he hasn’t removed his hand from the small of Dean’s back.

The Omega girl and her female Alpha, the ones Dean saw at the reception, are already in the ‘drawing room’, which Dean would guess doubles as a ballroom if he didn’t already know that the ballroom is actually located in a separate building, across from the golf course, shooting range and stables.

The Omega girl smiles at him as he and Sam settle onto one of the couches. Dean wishes that the tiny bit of recognition didn’t make him feel even worse – a reminder that no one here gives a shit about him except the people who’re worthless too. He manages a tight smile back at her before Sam pulls him in tight against his side.

                “Bit much, don’t you think?” he hisses, low enough that only Sam can hear.

                “Just be grateful I haven’t got you sitting on my lap,” Sam hisses back, and Dean feels a bit like he’s been slapped in the face. Sam’s been incredibly nice throughout this whole thing – disconcertingly so, but this is a stark reminder that, while they’re sitting out here, Sam could do whatever he wanted to Dean, and Dean wouldn’t be able to do a damn thing about it without blowing their cover. He stiffens a little, grinding his teeth.

                “Sorry, I didn’t mean it,” says Sam, and then starts stroking his hair, which isn’t what Dean wanted at all, except that it actually feels, well, really nice, and he finds himself leaning into the touch a little, closing his eyes. It’s probably only about five seconds before he realises what he’s doing and snaps his eyes open again, cursing himself.

He can’t help but feel like the entire Universe has dumped a massive injustice on him – why does he have to be like this, and more importantly, why is it that because of his biology, something he had no say in whatsoever, he’s suddenly seen as less important, weaker, something to be coddled and petted and taken care of? He’s seen things, hell, he’s _killed_ things, that would make most of the Alphas in this room piss themselves. But when they look at him (if they even bother) all they see is a pretty, sweet Omega, leaning obediently into his Alpha’s side.

 

 

Dean feels oddly sleepy during the ensuing small talk. Nuzzling absently into Sam’s neck, he muses that it’s probably for the best that Sam does all the talking here. He’s used to the High Life – or at least used to faking it – what with going to College and everything. He’s aware he’s being mean, and overly simplistic. Sam was always better at fitting in than he was. He wonders bitterly if that’s just another advantage of being born an Alpha.

Sam’s voice snaps him out of his thoughts.

                “… just awful, isn’t it? We were almost afraid to come.” Dean thinks vaguely that he should have just said ‘I’, instead of ‘we’. Not like his opinion matters here. It doesn’t seem like anyone thought Sam’s wording was odd though, there are murmurs of agreement from the other Alphas around the room. It seems that despite the staffs’ best efforts, the mysterious deaths of four guests aren’t easy to gloss over. Dean thinks viciously that it wouldn’t bother him if the whole place shut down. Good fucking riddance.

                “Still,” says the large male Alpha Dean saw earlier (his Omega is still just as twitchy, and looks a bit like he’s been crying. So does Dean though, so he supposes he’s in good company), “not a bad way to go. You heard how they went out, right?” His voice is full of insinuations, and Sam leans forward slightly, easing Dean back against the couch.

                “No, I didn’t, what happened?” Sam doesn’t need to fake the eagerness in his voice – this is the first hint they’ve had of any useful information.

The big Alpha leans back, clearly pleased at the attention on him. “They all died _in bed_ , if you know what I mean.” Dean almost snorts. These people came here, bringing their Omegas who they seem to have no trouble pawing at in public, and they can’t even say outright that the dead people were in the middle of fucking when their hearts gave out.

                “I’m sure it was drugs,” says the expensively-dressed female Alpha. She’s changed into an emerald-green dress with a plunging neckline and added about $3 million worth of diamonds to her already heavily-laden limbs. It’s a wonder she’s able to move the martini glass she’s holding from the table to her lips. Dean thinks, offhandedly, that she’s rather attractive for an older woman, though she’d look about eight times better if she wasn’t quite so blinding to look at. Even the other Alphas are squinting a little in the flares of light given off from all those jewels. “They were all young, in the prime of their lives. It’s odd though, I knew Peter Horton, and he didn’t even drink.” She stops, looking suddenly morose. Peter Horton was the first Alpha to die – he’d been a judge, very high-powered. The tabloids had had a field day with lurid, increasingly wild guesses as to what it had actually been that killed him. Of course, the coroners couldn’t find anything – on him or the other Alpha. The Omegas hadn’t been mentioned except in off-hand sentences, carelessly tacked on to the end of every article.

Conversation swiftly changes to more pleasant topics after that – yachts, parties, barely-concealed rivalry over wealth and whose children are going to the best Colleges. Sam whispers to Dean under the pretence of adjusting his collar and kissing the side of his neck.

                “Still nothing. God, I feel so helpless.” Dean glares at him and he grimaces apologetically. “I could say I’m tired – we could go to bed early?” It’s a peace offering, but Dean isn’t going to give him the satisfaction.

                “Fuck that. I’m having lobster.”

 

 

Dinner is an almost unbearable experience, not helped by the huge clock in the corner of the room that, if anything, seems to be moving backwards. Nobody wants to talk about any of the victims, and by the end Sam seems to be just as twitchy and irritable as Dean is.

Eventually it ends (only after seven courses – not including palate cleansers and after-dinner chocolates, Dean likes to eat but Jesus there’s a limit), and they both practically sprint back to their room.

Dean isn’t really thinking about it when he collapses on the huge bed. Sam was right, it’s amazingly comfy. He feels half asleep already. He barely notices when Sam flops down next to him.

                “That was…” he starts, too sleepy to continue.

                “Awful,” Sam finishes for him. They both dissolve into hysterically tired snickers as Sam starts to imitate the diamond-laden Alpha woman (her name is Eugenia Fortescue apparently, which Dean finds strangely amusing). At some point Dean can’t keep his eyes open anymore, and he falls asleep, fully clothed, with a genuine smile on his face for the first time since they arrived.

 

TBC...


	2. Day Two (Part One)

The room is still pitch-black when Dean wakes up, and it takes him a moment to realise it’s because of the thick curtains over the windows. He’s used to crappy motel rooms with curtains so thin they’re practically cobwebs, and the darkness is strange. He sighs contentedly, leaning back into the warm weight against his back and… oh. Uh Oh.

Sam is pressed up against him, one arm holding Dean snug against his chest. His ass is pressed back against Sam’s crotch and apparently Sam isn’t entirely immune to having an Omega pulled tight against him. Dean wiggles a little, trying to get free, then goes completely still when Sam moans a little in his sleep.

                “Sammy!” he hisses, trying to move away, but _Jesus_ Sam is strong, and _firm_ , and ( _okay don’t go there_ ).

                “Wha…?” Sam usually wakes up quicker than Dean does, but the room is very warm, and the bed is probably the comfiest either of them has ever slept in.

                “Dude, I need to pee! Lemme go!” Sam lifts up his arm, sluggish and still mostly-asleep, and Dean bolts for the bathroom. Once inside he leans against the door and takes a few deep breaths. There’s a strange, stirring part of him that wants to crawl back into bed with Sam and kiss him, touch him, wrap his legs around his Alpha’s strong waist and ( _definitely don’t go there!)._ God, he hadn’t realised stopping his suppressants would make him so…. weirdly horny. Especially not horny _for his brother_.

_Maybe it’s more than that_ , says a sly little voice in the back of his mind, which Dean clamps down on. The situation is weird enough as it is without a sudden onslaught of strange incestuous urges.

 

 

He’s mostly calmed down by the time Sam is completely awake and wanting his own turn in the bathroom. He either was too asleep to realise he was grinding his dick against Dean in his sleep or he’s trying to repress it too, because he seems cheerful as he comes out of the shower, towel wrapped around his waist. Dean tries not to stare at the way droplets of water drip from the ends of his hair and over his tanned chest. He’s always been aware, off-handedly and with a sort of smug pride, that Sam’s good looking, and that any Omega would be lucky to have an Alpha like him, but he’s never really _thought_ about it.

_Not thinking about it now, either_ , he tells himself as he tears his eyes away while Sam pulls on a crisp, white shirt. It’s strange for both of them, having to dress differently, all soft, expensive materials and fine tailoring. Sam plays the part of snobby trust fund kid pretty well in preppy shirts and sweaters, but dean can tell he isn’t comfortable, he’s always been happiest in hoodies and jeans. At least Dean can wear a t-shirt, even if it cost $80 and is far too tight for his liking.

                “We’re gonna check out the rooms today – of the victims. Check for EMF,” says Sam as he fastens the last button on his shirt (tantalising peek of collarbone just showing, not that Dean’s looking or even thinking about it, nope, not at all).

                “Sure,” Dean says automatically, then realises Sam’s essentially giving him an order. That’s usually _his_ job, he’s the oldest goddammit! “Or we could talk to some of the other guests, that woman Eugenie or whatever-“

                “Eugenia,” corrects Sam, “and I don’t think they know anything. If they do, they won’t say so. The rooms are our best bet.” Dean bites down on his tongue. Hard.

 

 

The EMF reader, predictably, goes completely haywire in both bedrooms. Somewhat worryingly, it also goes off in their bedroom and every other bedroom they manage to investigate.

                “Shit,” says Dean after the fifth time it happens, “how many people fucked themselves to death in this place?” Sam laughs under his breath. _We should set up some extra precautions_ , Dean thinks, and opens his mouth to say so-

                “We should set up some extra precautions,” says Sam, “maybe for the other guests too.” Dean glares at him.

                “That was what I was going to say!” he doesn’t know why he’s so angry, but the fact that Sam doesn’t seem fazed at all by the fact Dean is practically biting his head off is only making it worse.

                “Great minds think alike,” says Sam, with one of his dazzling smiles, all dimples and white teeth. Dean’s stomach swoops a little and he bites his tongue again. He’ll be lucky if he still has one by the end of this. Before he can think of something to say that’ll save his pride and hopefully remind Sam who’s older (and therefore in charge because that’s totally how these things should work), there’s the distinct sound of footsteps coming round the corner. Just as Dean gears himself up for an on-the-spot explanation of what exactly they’re doing crouched down outside an empty hotel suite clutching weird, beeping devices, Sam grabs him by the shoulders.

And wow, he’s kissing Dean.

Sam’s actually – and even though Dean isn’t surprised because these things are probably genetic _and wow that’s a pretty weird thing to be thinking right now_ – a really, really good kisser. He’s using just the right amount of force but still being gentle, holding Dean like he’s precious and wanted and –

                “Okay, they’re gone,” Dean hisses, shoving Sam away as the footsteps fade away. “And they weren’t even coming this way, what the fuck was that?” Sam looks a little dazed, his lips kiss-swollen and his hair mussed (Dean must have had his hands in it, _why on earth did he do that?)_.

                “Sorry,” says Sam, “I was just trying to… er… think on my feet.” Dean rolls his eyes. Sam is getting way too into this.

                “Okay, fine. Now the fake-out make-out’s over, can we go? Please?” He stands, and Sam grabs his arm.

                “Dean, I just-“ Sam’s eyes are pleading, and for a second there’s something like need, or want – but then it’s gone. “You know what, it’s nothing. Let’s get back to the room.” Dean snorts and hauls him up.

There’s a strange tension between them as they walk back to their room, and it’s making Dean uneasy.

                “So,” Dean says, “we’re thinking ghosts? Weird sex ghosts?” Sam laughs, and it sounds a little forced, but it’s something. Dean supposes it takes time to reconcile yourself with making out with your brother.

                “Looks like. I don’t think we’ve ever dealt with a _sex ghost_ before.” There’s amusement in his voice, enough that the lingering edginess dissipates, and by the time they get back to the room Dean might not be smiling, exactly, but he isn’t making a conscious effort to keep a frown off his face either.

 

 

Dean feels oddly cheerful as he lays out his clothes for the evening. If they were doing this whole Alpha/Omega thing properly Sam would be picking his outfit, but Dean figures he has to draw a line somewhere, especially with how blurry things have gotten in just one day.

Just one day undercover as his brother’s Omega and he’s already woken up with Sam’s morning wood pressed up against his ass, and made out with him. God knows what’ll happen in the next two weeks. He doesn’t feel scared though, in fact he feels… content, with a strange fluttering in his chest that feels horribly like excitement. He clamps down on that feeling as fast as he can, getting tingly feelings over the thought of kissing his brother again is _so_ not what he needs right now.

                “That’s nice,” says Sam absently as Dean holds up a green dress shirt.

                “Really brings out my eyes,” Dean shoots back with a chuckle.

                “Yeah, it does.” Sam sounds serious, almost wistful, and for the millionth time since they’ve arrived, Dean feels completely wrong-footed. There’s a part of him that wants to ask Sam outright what he’s playing at – is he making fun of Dean? Does he want Dean to be his Omega or something, for real?

That would be ridiculous. No Alpha with half a brain would want an Omega like Dean. He’s stubborn and disrespectful and uncouth and just _not good enough_.

That’s always made him feel proud – fuck everyone who thinks he’ll just bend over for them because of what he is, he’s stuck a finger up at society all his life. Now, for some reason that he can’t quite understand, it suddenly upsets him. He doesn’t fit in here. He doesn’t fit in anywhere.

 

 

                “What’s wrong?” asks Sam as they make their way down to dinner. Dean’s wearing the green shirt, after debating with himself for about half an hour and then feeling furious with himself for being so pathetic. Fussing over clothes like some kind of… dumb bitch.

                “Nothing’s wrong," he snaps, "Jesus, Sammy, will you just _leave it alone_.” Sam grabs his arm and wheels him round so they’re face to face.

                “Look, Dean, I know you hate this and I’m sorry. I wish…” he trails off and licks his lips, looking down and rubbing his neck, cheeks slightly red. “I know I’m making this worse, it’s just… it’s weird for me having you… er… the whole Omega thing freaks me out a bit, I mean, you…” he trails off and Dean snorts and yanks his arm from Sam’s grip.

                “What? It makes you uncomfortable? Realising what my life is actually like? How everyone out there looks at me? You seriously never saw that before?” He’s barely looking at Sam, doesn’t want him to actually _see_.

                “What? No, Dean, that’s not what I – you’re not – you’re different-“

                “Yeah, yeah, I suck as an Omega. Don’t worry, it’s not news to me. When all this is over, you know what? You can go off and find someone better. That’s what you want, right? Of course it is, it’s what you all want. Someone who’ll listen to you, do what you say? Bend over for you whenever you snap your fingers, hmm?” Dean can feel his anger rising now, liquid and hot in his chest. “You know what, Sam? I always thought you were different. I thought you cared about _who_ people were, not _what_ they were. But hey, an Alpha’s an Alpha.” He’s walking away now, long strides even though Sam can (and will) catch up with him in about two seconds. “You’re all the same, but whatever. I should’ve known.” He isn’t really sure why he’s taking it out on Sam – Sam hasn’t even done anything wrong, not really, but the anger is flooding him, blinding him, and all he can see is red.

He turns back to Sam when his vision clears, and Sam looks angry, really angry.

                “Is that really what you think, Dean?” He says. His voice is low, and dangerous. Dean shrugs, and Sam laughs and rubs his hand over his face.         “God, we shouldn’t have come here. I can’t believe a couple of days off your suppressants would have you acting like such a bitch.” With that, he turns around and walks away, leaving Dean standing alone in the hallway, mouth hanging open in shock and betrayal, while the first tear crawls, unnoticed, down his cheek.

In the sudden, sucking grief that swamps him, he doesn’t hear the footsteps come up behind him until there’s a hand clamped tight around his forearm (hard and bruising, not gentle like Sammy, not at all) and a voice whispers in his ear.

                “What’s a pretty thing like you doing out here all alone?”

 

\--

 

DUN DUN DUN... to be continued!


	3. Day Two (Part Two)

For one horrible moment, Dean freezes in panic.

                “Well? Not going to say hello?” Oh _shit_ , it’s the brawny Alpha from yesterday, the one with the overly-nervous Omega who’d seemed embarrassed to even be mentioning sex in polite company.

                “Ex-excuse me, I have to-“ Dean’s embarrassed by how high his voice sounds. He purposely lowers it normally, and speaking without the affected gravel in his tone feels like another layer of the mask he’s worked so hard on his entire life has been forcibly stripped away. He tries to jerk his arm away from the Alpha – Tom? Thomas? – but he’s being held with a surprising amount of force. He wonders for a moment, ludicrously, if going off his suppressants means he’s weaker, and thinks that if that’s the case he could have been damn well warned about it.

                “Shh, sweetheart, what’s wrong? Alpha left you all alone? That wasn’t very clever, was it? Lovely little thing like you.” He trails the hand he isn’t using to hold Dean in a death grip up his arm in a horrible parody of affection. “Anyone could come along and just… take you.”

 _Shit shit shit_.  Dean has two options – number one, he can kick this fucker in the nuts, busting his and Sam’s cover in the process, and be out of this place as quick as possible, leaving more guests to die (not that the thought doesn’t have a certain appeal), or, he can stand here, stall, and hope to hell that Sam, or someone (anyone, God, somebody _please_ ) happens to come by this way and deigns it worth their while to get him out of this.

The Alpha (he’s pretty sure the guy’s name is Thomas but right now he’s thinking of him as _incredibly inappropriate douchenozzle_ ) leans in and licks a wet stripe up the side of his neck. “You taste delicious,” he says, and Dean grimaces in disgust. The guy feels all wrong against him, saliva sticky and uncomfortable on Dean’s neck, and he even _smells_ wrong. But Dean can’t move, he’s scared (no, that’s ridiculous, he just doesn’t want to blow his cover, he has people to save and bad things to kill and _no way_ does any civilian get the jump on Dean Winchester _ever_ ).

 _Sammy, please_ , he thinks desperately, squeezing his eyes shut, _come back, I’m sorry_.

                “Get the fuck away from him.” Dean thinks, just for a second, that he must be hallucinating because a – there’s no way Sam could have heard him _thinking_ , and b- Sam sounds terrifying. Truly, truly terrifying, like he wants to tear incredibly inappropriate douchenozzle’s balls off and feed them to him (and Dean would quite like to see that but it’s still a tone he’s not used to hear coming out of his _little brother_ ). But the pressure on his arm is suddenly gone and Dean can’t be hallucinating because Sam is right here and he’s holding Dean against him like he’s something precious and loved.

Dean pushes his face into Sam’s shoulder and inhales deeply. Sam smells like home and like everything that’s good and right in Dean’s life and it really, really isn’t fair that Sam’s his brother and that Dean’s Dean with all his imperfections because Sam is perfect and Dean _wants him_ , he wants him so badly that it’s like a physical pain.

The other Alpha is still talking, in a jovial, we’re-all-friends-here tone, asking if perhaps they can ‘make some kind of arrangement’. Sam tells him calmly to go fuck himself and he swiftly moves on – no hesitation, no stammering – to saying it was all a big misunderstanding.

                “Get the fuck out of my sight. You’re lucky I’m not getting you thrown out.” Sam’s tone is calm, cold and terrifying, but it makes Dean feel somehow warm and safe.

Sam is talking softly now, making hushing noises and saying _it’s ok, it’s ok_. With some difficulty, Dean tears his face away.

                “I didn’t know what to do,” he says and he can’t believe how wrecked and small and helpless he sounds, “I didn’t want to blow our cover.” Sam pulls him close again and Dean slumps against him gratefully.

                “He’s gone, Dean.”

                “’M sorry, Sammy.” Dean mumbles. He doesn’t really know what he’s apologising for – his outburst, getting into trouble, just being him, it doesn’t matter – but he can feel Sam shaking his head.

                “You don’t have anything to be sorry for. You’re perfect.” The last part is quiet, and Dean must have imagined it anyway, because it’s not true.

 

 

He’s in a total daze as Sam marches him back to their room, pressed even closer than before. They pass by the female couple on their own way down to dinner.

                “Oh my God, Dean, are you ok?” It’s the Omega girl (her name’s Felicity, Dean thinks, as he nods, tears dripping from his nose and jaw – he’s crying again, _God, how pathetic_ ), and he must look a state, because she sounds worried.

                “He’s fine,” says Sam, rubbing Dean’s arm in a soothing way that’s completely different from how Thomas was caressing him moments ago. “He just had a little scare, that’s all. I don’t think we’ll be at dinner, sorry.” He doesn’t sound sorry, he sounds a little worried, and Dean supposes he has every right to be. He’s spent his whole life taking care of Sam, and those roles suddenly being reversed so dramatically is probably a shock to Sam – suddenly realising that his big brother who looked after him for so many years is just another needy, whining Omega.

Dean doesn’t really listen to the couple’s assurances that _yes, of course it’s fine, these things happen, give the poor thing a cup of tea and a cuddle_. He’s still leaning into Sam – it’s nice, while it lasts, he knows Sam won’t want to hold him like this for long so he’ll make the most of it under the guise of keeping their cover. He wonders, vaguely, if he’s always wanted this, secretly, for Sam to take care of him and treat him the way he’s been told his whole life, not from their insular and dysfunctional family unit but from the outside world, was the way that he ought to _want_ to be treated. And maybe Sam isn’t like other Alphas, gentle and kind instead of forceful and aggressive, but it doesn’t mean he’ll want Dean.

He doesn’t think he’s ever felt so miserable in his life, this crushing realisation that not only has he been lying to himself about what he wants, but that what he wants is _Sam_.

 

 

Sam sits him down on one of the couches in the living area.

                “Whiskey? Or did you actually want a cup of tea?” His tone is light and jovial but there’s an underlying pleading there, and Dean doesn’t know if Sam’s begging him to snap out of it or if he’s just confused by this sudden change in behaviour and doesn’t know what to do.

                “Whiskey. Dammit.” He leans back (the sofa’s just as comfy as the bed and Dean entertains a momentary thought about what it would be like to get fucked on it, maybe ride Sam slow and hard until they were both panting and desperate, or be bent forward and have his face pressed up against these soft cushions, pleading and – _stop it, he’s your brother and he **doesn’t want** **you**_ ). “Could’a kicked his ass,” he says instead, and Sam smiles.

                “Obviously. Jesus, what a dick. I can’t believe there a people out there who think they can just do that to another human being. Like they don’t even matter.” Sam sounds genuinely shocked. It’s different for Alphas, Dean knows, especially ones like Sammy who are all liberal and progressive and like to treat Omegas like they’re people, not just pets or property.

                “I don’t matter though. Just an Omega. Just a dumb, pathetic, worthless Omega. And not even a good one.” Sam hands him the whiskey carafe (no glass, he obviously realises this is an emergency) and Dean runs a finger down its side – crystal, hand-carved, horribly expensive like everything else in this place. He wonders if Thomas would have offered to reimburse Sam if he’d got there too late, how much money he would have considered Dean worth. He takes a long swig, looking at Sam out of the corner of his eye. Sam is chewing his lip thoughtfully. He looks upset, which is stupid. Dean’s only telling him the truth.

                “You’re not worthless, Dean. You’re amazing. I never really,” he sighs and looks away, “I never really realised what you had to go through. You deal with crap like this all the time, and you’ve never complained. You’re stronger than me, stronger than anyone. And I…” he trails off, looking suddenly stricken, as though he’s spilling out more than lies and platitudes to make Dean feel better, as though he’s actually being honest.

                “I love you,” he says, and the words are rushed and strange and Dean just _knows_. Knows he doesn’t mean ‘as a brother’, but as something more. “I know it’s wrong,” Sam blunders on, the words coming even faster, “you always took care of me and I shouldn’t want you and God, I know this is the worst time to be saying this and I, I’m sorry for kissing you earlier and please will you make me shut up now?”

Dean can’t quite believe what he’s hearing. He still isn’t sure quite what his newly-unearthed feelings for Sam really are beyond _please stay_ and _hold me_ and _keep me safe_ , but if this isn’t all some kind of strange fever dream, then that means that Sam wants him too and that just… can’t be right.

                “I,” he starts but his mouth feels dry and he takes another gulp of whiskey, “I don’t understand.” Sam sits down next to him and takes the carafe, but instead of swigging from it he just stares at it, turning it over in his hands as though transfixed by the play of light over crystal.

                “I love you,” he says again, as though the last time wasn’t loud or firm enough, as though he hadn’t put enough emotion into it. “And I’m sorry.” He stands up and places the whiskey on the coffee table as gently as he’s done everything else, walking to the bedroom and leaving Dean sitting there wondering what the hell to do.

What does he say, how can he reply to that? As though his limbs are moving on autopilot, Dean stands up and follows him. The words that come out of his mouth don’t quite sound like his voice.

                “I love you too, you know. I think I always have.” He sits next to him on the bed, and it feels tentative and strange, despite the countless motel beds they’ve sat side by side on through the years, cleaning weapons or researching or just watching crappy TV. He looks directly at Sam, some kind of hysterical courage coming to him (Dean’s brave, he knows it, but when it comes to stuff like this he’s always been terrified), and Sam’s eyes are wet. Considering how much crying Dean’s done in the short time they’ve been here, it only seems fair. “So,” he says, and he’s impressed by how steady his voice is now, “what are we going to do about it?”

 

\--

 

If there are errors in this chapter, I'm terribly sorry - been having some serious computer trouble. Hopefully I'll get it sorted in a day or so in time for the next update!


	4. Day Two (Part Three)

The silence in the room is crushing, full of anticipation like the heat and crackle of the air just before a thunderstorm. Neither of them wants to move, and Dean wonders if Sam feels the same as he does, as though the slightest twitch could cause this illusion to shatter. So he does the only thing he can think of (and if it’s all a dream then this won’t matter, won’t make any difference at all), and leans in to catch Sam’s mouth with his own.

The kiss is tender, not panicked and awkward like the one they shared earlier (he still can’t believe it’s the same day, it feels like it should have been months, or even years). Sam’s unresponsive for a moment, but then he leans forward into the kiss, cradling Dean’s face in his hands and licking into his mouth. He’s being gentle – too gentle, and Dean kisses him harder.

Suddenly Sam is pushing him back against the bed, pressing his body against Dean’s and pinning his hands over his head. It’s such an Alpha thing to do, and if anyone else tried it Dean would probably knock them out, but instead he’s writhing against Sam, wrapping his legs around Sam’s waist and thrusting up against him.

There’s a struggle as Sam pulls Dean’s shirt over his head – Dean misinterpreted him leaning back and tried to yank him down close again – and a particularly hard bite to his collarbone makes Dean yelp, and not in a good way. Maybe, it’s possible it’ll grow on him. Sam gets his shirt off too, and suddenly they’re skin-on-skin. They’ve wrestled shirtless before, until Dean presented as an Omega anyway (and maybe Dad knew something they didn’t when he started insisting they wore t-shirts for sparring), but this is so different. There’s no violence, despite the urgency, and every touch of Sam’s skin against his feels like sparks, zinging up his spine.

He eventually manages to work his hand in between their bodies, to tug at Sam’s fly. Sam’s making it difficult, doesn’t seem to want to stop rutting against Dean long enough to let Dean actually get a hand against his crotch, but eventually he gets with the program and Dean makes a triumphant little noise as he yanks down Sam’s zipper.

He’s dimly aware of an unwelcome pounding noise coming from the front of their suite, but at this point he’s choosing to ignore it. It gets louder, more frantic, and with huge difficulty he tears himself away from Sam and murmurs,

                “I think there’s someone at the door.”

                “Ignore it,” says Sam, mouthing at Dean’s jaw and sucking a trail of kisses down his neck, but the pounding is coming even harder.

                “I really… um… I think we should get that.” Sam sighs but lets him go, and he scurries to the door with an apologetic smile back at Sam, who lounges back on the bed without bothering to zip himself back up, raising his eyebrow in a way that should look ridiculous (and it does, really), but makes Dean’s stomach flutter a little bit all over again.

Felicity is at the door, her red hair in disarray. It looks like she’s been crying.

                “I’m so, so sorry – I know you had a bad day, but something terrible’s happened.” She’s shaking and half-dressed, her Alpha a little off to the side and speaking in hushed tones to a slightly-hysterical maid.

                “Jesus,” breathes Dean, “what’s going on?”

                “It’s Thomas. He’s dead.”

 

 

Thomas’ Omega, Jackson, is sitting huddled in the foyer, a police officer next to him looking somewhat wrung-out. Sam and Dean hang back – getting involved with the police is definitely not a good idea right now.

Eventually, the police leave, looking disappointed in a way that suggests they’re utterly clueless to what went on. Dean sits down next to Jackson and smiles at him sympathetically. This is really Sam’s area but he reckons, given Jackson’s general twitchiness and the fresh black eye he’s sporting, that he won’t be wanting to deal with Alphas any time soon.

                “You okay?” asks Dean, trying to channel Sam a little and put as much sympathy as possible into his voice. Jackson licks his lips and shakes his head.

                “Not really. He was… when he died, we were…” he trails off and gives Dean a cold smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “He was a real bastard, y’know? And he was pissed about what happened with you.” Dean didn’t think Thomas would have told anyone about what happened.

                “I’m sorry.” He isn’t though, there’s a small part of him that’s glad. Jackson shakes his head.

                “It’s not your fault, he’s just used to getting what he wants. I thought it was great at first, y’know? I was… my folks were real poor, and then he came along and he bought me all these presents and shit and I was just totally swept up. I shoulda known it was too good to be true.” Jackson seems to be on the verge of giving Dean his entire life story, his eyes misting over slightly. It’s probably some sort of defence mechanism.

                “How did it happen?” Dean manages to ask before Jackson can start the long tour down memory lane. “I mean, when he died, did anything weird happen?” He’s rushing into the questioning too quick, he knows, but Jackson’s still too in shock to think anything of it.

                “Yeah,” he says, nodding. “The cops didn’t seem to think it was important, but we… we were in bed, and suddenly it got really cold. Like, I could see my breath, and I tried to get him to stop. That’s when he hit me,” he touches his cheekbone absently, “and then – this is gonna sound really weird, and I swear I’m not on drugs, but there was this girl. One second she was there, the next she was gone. I probably imagined it, but I swear she said something. i could still hear it after I couldn’t see her anymore.”

                “What did she say?” _Please be a clue_ , Dean thinks desperately. Not that ghosts are known for being the most informative conversationalists.

                “ _’You can’t have me_.’ Just that, over and over again. Until it stopped sounding like actual words.” Jackson shudders. “Then Thomas started choking, and that’s when the maids came in. he was still alive, and still… inside me… and the room just suddenly went back to normal. He was still alive, sounded like he couldn’t breathe. He didn’t die until after the paramedics got here.”

 

 

                “We have to find out if there have been any mysterious deaths here – I mean before this ghost started ganking all the patrons. If something was covered up, whatever. This place has only been open two years, shouldn’t be too hard. What was it before?” Sam doesn’t seem to be listening to him, and Dean snaps his fingers. “Sam? Anyone home?”

                “Yeah, I was just thinking.” He’s got that expression on his face that means he’s onto something, and it’s always annoyed the hell out of Dean, but right now he kind of wants to just kiss it off Sam’s face. Sadly for him, this ghost seems dead-set on ruining his sex life completely. “Why didn’t it kill Jackson? In all the other cases, both partners died. Why leave him alive?” Dean considers this for a moment.

                “The maids came in before it could get him. Jackson said Thomas was still alive, but only just barely from the sound of it. Maybe after four of your guests die, you start recognising the sound of a crisis in progress.”

                “Yeah, I guess.” Sam’s still looking unconvinced. “I just… I know he was a dick, but he didn’t deserve to die. I hate not being able to save people, y’know.” Dean _does_ kiss him then – very chaste, no tongue, barely a feather light brush of lips. It does the trick, and Sam’s expression smoothes out into a small, tired smile. It’s not the dazzling, blinding grin that Dean really wants to see, but it’s better than the pained expression he was wearing before.

                “We’ll get it, Sammy,” says Dean, patting his cheek, “just like we always do.”

 

 

Research is slow, even using the resort’s super-fast Wifi (Sam was hilariously overexcited about that when they were booking this place, all Dean cared about was the water pressure in the showers). If anyone died during the resort’s early days, it’s been buried deeper than Atlantis (assuming Dad’s notes in his journal about that particular lost city were genuine research and not just an uncharacteristic attempt at humour).

Dean’s mind wandered away from the research a while ago, and instead he’s thinking about Jackson. He left in a cab after Dean was finished talking to him with barely a backwards glance. He was upset, and definitely shaken, but there was a look of relief on his face that Dean didn’t know whether to find reassuring or worrying. He’s wondering, now, if Jackson’s gone back to his parents, or if he’ll just find some other rich, awful Alpha to abuse him like Thomas did. Dean really hopes it’s the former, but deep down he knows that the latter is just as likely.

He’s met so many Omegas who have been taught that all they have is how they look. A pretty Omega, no matter how poor, can have a good life. Provided, that is, that they put up with being beaten, and belittled, and used as nothing but a sex toy or incubator. He lost count of the number of times, when he’d been hunting with Dad, when ammo dealers or sleazy guys in bars, or sometimes even witnesses, had offered Dad money for him. He could have been living in a mansion at sixteen, going by what he’d been told about his eyes, and his body, and most often his mouth. If there was one thing he was grateful to his father for, above all else, it was him teaching Dean that he didn’t have to do that. That he could kill monsters and save innocents just as well as any Alpha hunter.

                “This is useless,” says Sam, voicing what Dean’s been thinking for the last half hour, but then he’s never had Sam’s patience for research. Dean nods, ready to go to bed – it’s been a ridiculously long day, and it’s almost 4am. Then Sam starts. “Hold on a second… so get this, before Opus Amore opened, this place was owned by a guy named Geoffery Burnham. It was sold because he died here, everyone suspected murder but they never convicted anyone, or even had any suspects. It was empty for ten years before it was bought by developers and turned into a luxury holiday resort.”

                “It can’t be him,” says Dean. “Jackson said the ghost was a chick, so unless this Burnham guy had a side gig as a really convincing drag queen, he’s not the one.” Sam nods, still reading.

                “He had an Omega – a girl, it just says ‘Laura’ here – who died about three months before him. It doesn’t say how, but she was only sixteen, no known illnesses according to this.” Dean nods.

                “So what’re we thinking? He kills her, the bastard, her pissed-off spirit comes back, kills him right back, and then what? Keeps killing Alphas?”

                “Maybe. Why kill the Omegas too, though?” That question stumps both of them, and they sit in uncomfortable silence for a while.

                “Maybe she didn’t mean to,” says Dean eventually. Sam gives him a strange look, but shrugs.

                “I don’t know, and I can’t look at this screen anymore, my head hurts. You coming to bed?” It’s casual, not suggestive at all, but Dean still feels a wave of heat pass through him.

                “Yeah. Of course.”

 

\---

 

Darn interrupting sex ghost! I was worried the actual case was getting waylaid by all of Sam and Deans' feeeelings, so a bit of plot development there now that they've got the confession of incestuous feelings out of the way.

 

I just wanna say a really big thankyou to everyone who's left kudos and comments on this so far - I'm having a lot of fun writing this fic and the fact that people are actually enjoying it is the icing on the cake, so yay! 


	5. Day Three

This morning, when Dean wakes up with his face pressed against Sam’s neck and Sam’s arms wrapped tightly around him, it doesn’t feel weird at all. Dean studies his brother’s sleeping face for a few moments, running his hand gently over Sam’s cheekbone. All the tension drains out of him when he sleeps (providing he isn’t having one of his nightmares) and he looks younger, more innocent. The thought is nowhere near as weird as it should be, but Dean thinks he’s starting to be alright with that. When you’ve spent your life hunting monsters, being in love with your little brother starts to look minor in comparison. Besides, constantly putting your life on the line means you’ve got to learn to appreciate what you’ve got, and if all you have is someone who means everything to you, who’s kind and selfless and hot as hell, well then Dean figures he’s still come out on top.

                “Morning,” Sam mumbles, shifting slightly. Dean’s own ‘morning’ is muffled where his mouth is still pressed against Sam’s skin, and he pulls back, absently wiping his mouth and blinking the last vestiges of sleep from his eyes.

                “You look cute when you’re half-asleep,” says Sam, and Dean mock-glares at him.

                “Call me cute again and you’ll be lucky if I ever put out.”

                “Yeah right. Like you’re even capable of refusing sex. Ever.”

                “Bitch.”

                “Jerk.”

 

 

They’re still laughing and playfully shoving each other when they go down to breakfast. The atmosphere is less tense than last night, but the staff seem especially keen to please, and there’s still a dark cloud hanging over the room. The flashy female Alpha and her quiet male Omega are nowhere to be seen.

                “Where are Eugenia and, er…” says Sam by way of greeting to Felicity’s Alpha (Dean thinks her name is Amanda, he really needs to get better at remembering peoples’ names, especially if they’re not going to bother to introduce themselves), who’s looking drawn and tense. Dean wishes he could supply the name of Eugenia’s Omega, but he never bothered to find out either.

                “Carlos,” pipes up Felicity. “They left.” She bites her lip and leans back, “they were scared I guess.” She looks a little scared herself, but nowhere near as bad as her Alpha, whose hands are shaking around her coffee mug.

                “We’re thinking of leaving too”, she says, finally putting her mug down before she splashes coffee everywhere, and squeezing Felicity’s shoulder like she's desperate for something to ground her. The smiles they give each other are strained, but genuine, and Dean feels a surge of respect for both of them. He’s so used to seeing terrible, unbalanced, abusive relationships between Alphas and Omegas that their obvious love and respect for each other is reassuring, especially after what he heard from Jackson, and his and Sam’s realisation about the probable identity of their ghost. “How about you?”

                “We don’t scare easy,” says Sam (Dean has a moment of thinking _hey, that’s my line, isn’t it?_ ), and Felicity smiles.

                “Us neither.” She turns to Amanda, “we saved up for months to come here. It was probably just a freak accident.” Sam and Dean exchange nervous looks – honestly, the less people who are around the better, but they don’t want to arouse suspicion by seeming to know too much. The rest of the meal passes in increasingly awkward silence, punctuated by nothing but the clang of silverware on plates.

 

 

While Sam goes out to dig up whatever he can find on Laura’s death, Dean sits by the pool and considers his surroundings with something other than disdain for the first time since he arrived. It’s quite nice really, he supposes, even if it’s not really his style. And the free drinks are great. He leans back with a contented sigh and waits for Sam to come back.

                “You’re not asleep, are you?” It’s Felicity. Dean blinks at her a few times.

                “No, just… sitting here.”

                “Enjoying the complimentary cocktails?” Okay, now that’s embarrassing. He’s really more of a straight-up spirits guy, but whatever they’re putting in the drinks is delicious, and he took out the umbrella so it’s not like it’s _super_ girly – “you’re blushing.”

                “Did you want something?” It comes out much snappier than intended, but Felicity just shrugs and flops down on the sun lounger next to him.

                “Not really. Amanda’s gone out. So’s Sam, I guess?” Dean nods. “I just get kinda lonely, and I figured we have some sort of shared trauma or whatever now, so…” she trails off, but carries on when Dean doesn’t say anything. “You seem better now though, you were really on edge the first day. I was kind of worried that you were in a situation, y’know, like Jackson was.” She stops. “Wow, I’m sorry, that was really out of line.”

                “Nah, it’s okay,” Dean says, wondering how he can explain his and Sam’s situation in a way that doesn’t involve mentioning that Sam’s his brother and they’re actually here to kill a ghost. “This isn’t my usual kind of scene.”

                “Yeah, I didn’t think so. Mine neither – or Amanda’s, actually.”

                “How long have you been together?” Dean asks, half to be polite and half because it’s nice to move the topic of conversation away from him and Sam.

                “Three years,” says Felicity, who Dean is quickly realising is a hell of a talker. “But we’ve known each other, like, forever. She used to babysit for me, when I was younger.” She laughs, jostling Dean’s shoulder amiably. “That sounds kinda weird, huh? But I think I was always in love with her. We’re so happy together, it’s amazing. You don’t ever expect to get something like that, do you?”

                “No,” agrees Dean. “But you’re lucky. A lot of Alphas…”

                “Not Sam, though.”

                “No, not Sam.”

The silence that follows is friendly and peaceful, a world away from the awkwardness of the morning. Dean thinks he understands now, truly, how lucky he is to have Sam. Realising the depths of his feelings in the wake of being forced to succumb to his Omega nature was like being plunged into icy water, but thinking about how much worse it could have been had his life been different is a different feeling altogether. He hasn’t had much luck in his life, but on this count at least, he can feel like he’s won.

 

 

When Sam gets back he looks grimly satisfied, and he’s clutching a sheath of papers.

                “We got anything?” Even if he’s less on edge now, Dean’s still itching for the hunt, the hard labour of grave-digging and the satisfying flicker of flame that means the danger’s over.

                “Yeah,” says Sam. “You’re not gonna like it. I got Laura’s diary.” He holds out the paper – Dean can see now that they’re photocopies. He sits down and flicks through, feeling increasingly unsettled.

                “Jesus Christ, Sam, have you read this?” Sam just nods, looking upset. “This Burnham guy was more than just a murderous dick, he was a monster.” He carries on flicking through, the details of Laura’s life lurid and horrible on the pages, in increasingly shaky writing. It started hopeful and naïve, talking about her excitement at a rich, powerful Alpha showing interest in her, but all too soon the illusion was shattered.

“He beat her, raped her, pimped her out to his friends. All before she’d even turned sixteen. And then he killed her. Her last entry just says that she knows he’s going to kill her.”

“ _’He can’t have me’_ ,” Dean reads. “She’s definitely our ghost.” He stops and puts the papers down. “This wasn’t even that long ago, Sam,” he says, “it’s not like it was in the fucking 50s when Omegas weren’t even allowed to vote or go to school.”

“I know.”            

“So why didn’t anyone fucking do anything about it? It’s obvious he killed her. No wonder she came back and did it herself. Jesus.” He tosses down the papers in disgust. “The whole goddamn world is so fucked up.” He put his head in his hands and breathes deeply, half-hearing, half-feeling Sam sit down next to him on the couch.

“I’m sorry.” Dean manages a half-smile at the earnestly apologetic look on Sam’s face.

“It’s not your fault. You’re one of the good ones.”

 

 

An hour later they still don’t know where Laura was buried – or if she even _was_ buried.

                “I really thought we’d have finished the hunt by now," says Sam absently as he combs through various local church records.

                “Why’d you book two weeks then?” Dean shoots back, not really paying attention either, it’s just idle conversation, but he snaps to attention when Sam suddenly looks guilty. “Holy shit! You planned this! You booked us a fucking romantic holiday!” Most of the frustration and anger that’s been roiling around in his veins dissipates. “Sammy you sap.” Sam shoves him.

                “Shuddup. I just… thought we deserved a break.”

                “Sure, sure. At a _luxury couples resort_. Admit it, Sam. You were trying to _seduce_ me.” He flutters his eyelashes in a way that he imagines looks absolutely ridiculous, but Sam makes a funny gulping noise and looks away.

                “Can you not distract me right now, Dean? We’re kind of in the middle of a hunt here.”

                “Spoilsport.”

 

 

They’ve still gotten nowhere when Sam looks at his watch and announces that it’s time for them to go to dinner (he still says _only as long as you want to go_ , and Dean responds by giving him the finger, which seems to sort out that particular argument).

Dean is deliberately as provocative as possible at dinner, so much so that Felicity is occasionally giving him incredulous looks across the table as she sits comparatively primly in Amanda’s lap.

Dean wriggles in Sam’s lap until Sam makes an amusing squeaking noise that means it would be terribly embarrassing for Sam if he happened to stand up at this point, and bats his eyes (he’s so glad to work out that that’s a trick which actually works on Sam, even if he’s still pretty sure it looks stupid) until Sam caves and hand-feeds him dessert, making the most inappropriate noises he possibly can, and sucking Sam’s fingers long after he’s licked away the last drops of cream and caramel sauce.

When dinner ends (and boy has it been a much more enjoyable experience than the first night), Sam practically sprints out of the dining hall, which quite frankly makes his little (although ‘little’ would be a bit of a disparaging word to use – his dick is seriously impressive) problem about a hundred times more obvious. To their credit, the staff don’t even seem to notice. This is probably something they’re used to.

Sam herds Dean, who’s still laughing and trying to rub up against him, into their room. Now that he doesn’t look embarrassed, he’s slipped into full-on bitchface. Dean’s a bit confused about why Sam’s so angry, he feels strangely warm, and tingly. It’s a nice feeling, even if his thoughts seem to constantly be drifting away, or at least they keep somehow landing back on sex. He kind of wants to jump Sam now, they’ve waited long enough, right? And he just knows it would feel so good, to have Sam inside him, finally claiming him…

                “Dean, what the hell?” Sam sounds kind of mad, but Dean thinks he can make him feel better. He’s dimly away that he’s rolling his hips against Sam and panting a bit, which would normally be hugely embarrassing, but right now he doesn’t really care. Comprehension suddenly wipes the anger off of Sam’s face, leaving him with a shocked but resigned expression. “Oh shit,” he says.

                “Huh?” says Dean, not really listening. He runs his hands up Sam’s chest (wow, warm) and links them together behind Sam’s head, leaning in for a kiss.

                “ _Dean_ ,” hisses Sam, trying to bat him away, “ _you’re going into heat_.”

Oh shit.

 

\--

 

Might be slightly longer before the next update (sorry! Got a busy weekend coming up) but hopefully not too long - Monday at the absolute latest, and I'll try to make it a long chapter (and hopefully at least a little bit porny, the porn is long overdue) . Comments and questions welcome as always!


	6. Day Four

Dean hasn’t had a heat since he was sixteen – and that was only his second before John decided that he’d have to go on suppressants. He wonders sometimes if his father was disappointed that he didn’t end up with two Alpha sons. John had never said that he saw Dean any differently after he presented as an Omega, and Dean was so glad that his father had treated him the same as Sam, never acted like it was odd for Dean to learn how to shoot guns and throw knives. John encouraged him to masquerade as a Beta, and the fact that it was all an elaborate lie became just another thing they weren’t supposed to talk about.

He’s forgotten how it feels, the desperate, itching _need_ of it. He’s also forgotten how having an Alpha in close proximity makes it so much worse. Sam is resolutely ignoring his pleas, fetching him damp cloths to put across his forehead and gently pushing him away every time Dean starts begging him and trying to clamber all over him (he’s pretty uncoordinated right now, so a small shove is all it takes).

                “I don’t wanna take advantage of you,” he says as he extracts Dean from his lap for what must be the fifteenth time this morning, “just tough it out, ok?” He’s putting on a good show of resistance, but Dean’s pretty sure he can persuade him to change his mind.

                “Aw. C’mon, Sammy,” Dean purrs, attempting to pin Sam down to the bed again (Sam insisted on sleeping on the couch last night, after the third time Dean tried to pull his boxers down). “I know what you want. Stop being such a pussy.” Sam flips him over, so he’s the one pinned, and he thrusts up against Sam appreciatively. “Yeah, now you’re getting it.”

                “Just – just stay here,” Sam pants, and then suddenly he’s gone.

                “What the fuck, Sam?” Dean sits up on the bed, legs splayed and erection looking a little obscene and ridiculous (not that he’s really paying any attention right now, his brain’s too focused on ‘nooo, Alpha, please come back to me’).

                “I’ll be back in a bit, alright? I’ll get you something to help with your, um, problem.”

                “What? Why? Why can’t you just… take care of it?”

                “Because you’re not in a state of mind where you can give proper consent, Dean!”

                “Dammit, Sam! We’ve already been over this. I love you, you love me, blah blah blah, now could you just get back here and _fuck_ me?” Sam’s already out of the room though, and Dean leans back against the pillows with a sigh.

 

 

Sam arrives back in the suite about an hour later, red-faced and clutching a paper bag.

                “I got you some, er, supplies.” He sounds completely embarrassed, and Dean doesn’t feel sorry for him in the least. The last hour has been completely miserable, all because of Sam’s ridiculously over-the-top sense of propriety.

                “Sam, if that’s a dildo, just say it’s a fucking dildo. For fuck’s sake, have you always been such a prude?” He stretches languidly out on the bed, and smirks when Sam gulps. He’s actually almost impressed at the way Sam’s controlling himself, most Alphas are on an Omega in heat within minutes, which can lead to some serious problems. Sam’s only just holding it together though. _Yeah_ , Dean thinks smugly, _give it ten more minutes_.

Sam rummages in the bag and pulls out a packet of small white pills, which he tosses to Dean.

                “Take a couple of those. They won’t make it go away completely, but they should keep the heat under control enough for you to stop humping my leg every ten seconds.” Dean snorts, turning the pills over in his hands.

                “These don’t work, asshole. You honestly think I haven’t tried them before? First two heats I had, ‘fore I went on suppressants. They don’t do shit.” Sam looks genuinely shocked, and he’s got that irritatingly apologetic look on his face again. Dean stalks over to him (a little time on his own has earned back some semblance of coordination, at least) and twines his arms around his waist. “Look, I appreciate the effort, and you wanting to protect my virtue, or whatever, but you really don’t need to.” Sam sighs, but he isn’t trying to push Dean away this time, and he sounds resigned.

                “It’s not that I don’t want to – I really, really do, and it’s really hard –“ (Dean sniggers at that, because he’s pressed right up against Sam right now, and _yeah, it definitely is_ ) “ – real mature Dean, ok, it’s really _difficult_ to say no to you when I want you so much.” He’s running his hands up and down Dean’s back now, unconsciously, Dean thinks. “I just, I’ve heard so many horror stories about Alphas just taking what they want from Omegas in heat, and I know how much you hate the whole Alpha take-take-take thing.” He drops his head down on Dean’s shoulder. “I don’t want you to hate me.”

                “I could never hate you, Sammy,” Dean whispers, “please tell me you know that.” He thinks he probably sounds ridiculously needy right now, but he doesn’t really have it in him to care.

                “I know, Dean, really.” Sam nuzzles his neck briefly, just above the collar, then stays there, breathing against Dean’s neck.

                “It’s ok,” says Dean, quietly. “I know what I’m doing. I know I want this.” He pauses and licks his lips. “And you… you do to. So it’s ok.” He pulls back and smiles at Sam, trying for reassuring, but knowing that it probably comes across as hopeful and more than a little desperate. Sam smiles back for a moment, before a twinkle of something slightly predatory glitters in his eyes, and Dean breaks into a grin as he’s hoisted up and thrown onto the bed.

                Sam’s kissing him now and it has none of the gentleness of their past kisses, it’s possessive and hungry and rough, but it still feels like worship. Dean pulls frantically at Sam’s clothes before they’re both lucid enough to separate for the five seconds it takes to get naked. Dean’s brain short-circuits a little at the sight of all that toned, tanned skin, Alpha pheromones rolling off Sam and feeling like a physical heat against his hands when he runs them up Sam’s chest.

Sam flips him so he’s lying on his stomach, and he angles up his hips. He can hear his own voice faintly, nothing but breathy ‘please’s and ‘fuckmefuckmefuckme’, and Sam’s reassurances, soft, soothing sounds, are barely audible either over the pounding of blood in his head. Sam palms his ass roughly, spreading him open and positioning himself between Dean’s thighs.

                “I’ve never-“ the sudden hesitation in Sam’s voice cuts through the fog of need in Dean’s head, and he twists his head round to look at Sam. His pupils are hugely dilated and he’s staring down at Dean with a mixture of lust and wonder.

                “With an Omega?” Sam shakes his head and Dean smiles slowly. “Just go with it, you’ll know what to do. Instinct, y’know.” Sam smiles and nods, then lines himself up and sinks in. Deans’s wet from his heat, practically dripping onto the sheets, but Sam’s so big that it burns a little and he hisses.

                “Sorry, sorry,” says Sam, running his hand soothingly over Dean’s back.

                “S’okay, just… please.” Sam starts to thrust into him, slowly at first, and it’s amazing. Dean’s been fucked by Alphas before, but he’s never felt this sense of overwhelming love. It’s not ownership, it’s adoration, and it’s so overpoweringly _good_ that it’s almost like pain. Sam hits that sparking place inside him on every stroke, no talking now, just heavy, panting breaths and the sound of skin-on-skin.

Sam wraps his hands ( _his hands are so big_ , Dean thinks, _God, when did my little brother grow up so much?_ ) around Dean’s hips, and Dean instinctively pushes back, twisting his hips and clenching around Sam’s cock as his knot fills, and it’s so huge, such an intense feeling of fullness. His orgasm hits him like a freight train and the world whites out.

He blinks the mist away as Sam eases both of them up so Dean’s sitting in his lap.

                “You ok?” Sam breathes, still thrusting his hips up in tiny, jerky movements as he fills Dean up with his come.

                “I’m awesome,” says Dean, his voice coming crackly and completely fucked out. “This is awesome. You’re awesome. Jesus Christ.” His cock’s already filling again (he’d forgotten about quick recovery time being a side effect of the heat, but boy is he grateful for it now) and Sam ducks his head down against Dean’s shoulder.

It’s nice, just sitting here being held. Dean always found knotting awkward – too much compulsory closeness after sex when all he really wanted to do was get out of there as soon as possible. That was why, in general, he stuck to fucking Betas and other Omegas. None of that _so good, so tight, perfect around my knot, aren’t you bitch?_ Sam is saying things like _beautiful_ and _amazing_ and _I love you_ , and it’s not humiliating at all. He does feel owned now, full up in a way that’s so much more than physical, and it’s a little scary, but he can deal with it. Deep down, he loves it.

-

The clean-up is still annoying as hell, but they’re both in such a good mood that it feels more like a game. Dean’s practically whistling, he can still feel the remaining twinges of his heat but it’s more like a pleasant tickle than an itch at this point. There was the slightly awkward moment of Sam earnestly making sure Dean's remembering to take birth control, but a scowl and a reassurance of 'what are you, an idiot? I've been taking it religiously since I was fourteen' take care of that.

                “I’ve been wanting to do that since I was fifteen, you know,” says Sam, as they bundle the sheets into the basket marked ‘laundry’ outside the suite (one advantage of staying in an Alpha/Omega resort is an everyday laundry service – after all, the sex can get notoriously messy).

                “You little perv,” chuckles Dean good-naturedly. He pauses and gives Sam a long look. “I hadn’t really thought about it. Before we came here, I mean.” Sam nods, and he licks his lips and continues. “But I think… I think I did want you, but I was scared.” He laughs, and it isn’t a particularly happy sound, but it isn’t as miserable and self-hating as it could be. “Jesus, one good fuck and I’m whining like a little girl. Don’t get used to this.”

                “I won’t. I like you how you are.”

                “Feisty?”

                “You bet.”

Dean mock-wrestles Sam back into the suite. This time, they don’t manage to make it to the bedroom, or even to get fully undressed. Dean’s naked, but Sam’s got his t-shirt rucked up under his armpits and his sweatpants round his ankles when Dean pushes him down onto the couch and climbs into his lap. It’s slower this time, Dean sinking down until his ass is pressed against Sam’s thighs, setting the pace as he rides his brother in slow, teasing movements. He closes his eyes and presses his face into Sam’s neck, breathing in the scent of his Alpha again.

Suddenly he’s aware that Sam’s gone still underneath him.

                “Er, Sam? You ok?” Sam’s looking at something behind him, eyes wide. Dean turns around, and realises that in their easy post-sex carelessness, one of them must have scuffed up the salt lines, because he’s face-to-face with a pale, teenage girl.

An unmistakeably _dead_ teenage girl.

 

 

They only have a ghost to witness the ensuing scramble to separate, and that’s embarrassing enough.

                “You can’t… have me,” Laura’s ghost breathes as she extends a hand, crackling with spiritual energy, towards Sam. He’s frozen, and Dean’s not sure if it’s with fear or if Laura has some kind of mystical power over Alphas.

Feeling immensely pleased with himself for having the forward thinking to stash guns pretty much all over the suite, Dean pulls out a shotgun, pre-loaded with rock salt, and blasts Laura right in the chest. She has a moment to look _incredibly_ pissed off, before vanishing into smoke.

Sam’s still looking panicked, hands white-knuckled where he’s gripping the edge of the couch.

                “Sam!” yells Dean, dropping the shotgun (they need to think fast, someone will definitely have heard it), and crouching down in front of his brother. “Sammy, talk to me, man. Are you breathing ok?” Sam slowly turns to face him.

                “Dean?” He sounds young, and scared, and that’s so scary. Dean was just coming round to the idea of Sam being his Alpha, being the one to protect _him_ , and this is like a sudden jolt back, back to taking care of Sammy the way he always has. That’s ok, though. He can do that.

                “What’s wrong?” he says, quietly.

                “She looked – before you looked at her, when I was the only one who could see her.” He pauses, stroking Dean’s cheek as though trying to make sure that Dean’s real. “She was covered in bruises and her mouth was saying _‘how could you do this to me’_ , over and over, and she looked…” he looks like he’s about to cry, all of six years old again, “she looked like _you_.”

 

-

 

So, that was my first attempt at teh pronz, and, um, I have to say I did not find it easy. I have a newly heightened respect for anyone who can write erotica.

Comments welcome, as always, and kudos have become my life force. Next update will be swifter!


	7. Day Five

Sam is being absolutely ridiculous, Dean’s decided. He’ll barely look at Dean, let alone touch him. Last night was a disaster, with him flinching away every time they so much as brushed fingers after they’d both gone to bed, and eventually getting up to sleep on the couch again. It’s not like the ghost can get them again – Dean triple-checked the salt lines. Twice. But Sam is utterly miserable and Dean feels helpless, even worse as the last of his heat hasn’t quite dissipated. At the very least, he’d like Sam to at least hold him, and he isn’t very good at initiating that kind of physical contact even at the best of times – asking to _snuggle_ when you’ve spent your whole life pretending to be someone who’s repulsed by cuddling is pretty embarrassing.

                “How many times do I have to tell you that I know you’d never hurt me?” Sam still hasn’t budged from where he’s been sitting staring blankly at all their research for the past few hours. The breakfast Dean eventually decided to order from room service is sitting cold and untouched next to him.  “Are you even listening?” Sam meets his eyes for a second then tears his gaze away again.

                “What if you don’t actually want me?” he says, forlorn and quiet. “What if it’s only because it’s what you think you should want?”

Dean snorts. “Yeah, sure. I only think I want to get in my little brother’s pants. If anyone should be freaking out about us, it’s me! And don’t think I didn’t do my fair share of freaking out the first couple of days we were here, but I seriously thought we were past this! You were fine with us until that ghost showed up – _better_ than fine!” Sam doesn’t reply, just sighs and flips a page. “Look,” says Dean making his voice as gentle and soothing as possible, “we’ll get this ghost, torch its bones, whatever, and then, if you like, we’ll sit down and have a _serious conversation_. Crack out the ice cream, maybe watch _Clueless_. Talk about the future of our relationship-“

                “Stop making it a joke, Dean!” Sam sounds angry, and Dean bristles a bit before he realises none of the anger is actually directed at him. He looks like he might be about to cry.

                “C’mon,” says Dean, deciding that perhaps a change in subject is the only appropriate course of action. “Let’s find out where she’s buried.” A hunt is good, it’s a distraction. After it’s over, Sam will forget about this and they can just… do whatever it is they’re going to do.

He hopes.

 

                “Goddammit,” says Sam, and tosses the church records he’s been combing through to Dean, who fumbles them a bit on purpose, seeing if he can get a rise out of his brother. Sam gives him a lopsided smile as he does, and Dean gives himself an inner high-five. That’s an improvement. “Laura was cremated.” And that’s certainly _not_ an improvement. It’s very bad news indeed.

                “Shit,” he says. “Well, there must be something tying her to this place. Blood maybe?” Sam chews his lower lip, and Dean desperately wants to kiss him. He manages to restrain himself. Just.

                “Maybe, but we’re never gonna find it. It’ll be buried under the resort, and I don’t think digging up the whole place will exactly endear us to the staff. Or the police.’” That means there’s only one way to get Laura’s ghost to move on – find out what her unfinished business is. As it seems to be ‘kill all Alphas and usually their Omegas too’, they might just have to fabricate something about radioactive material at the resort, but Dean has a sneaking suspicion that doesn’t work as well as it does in the movies.

 

                “At least we know how to summon the ghost,” says Dean as they leave the library. He’s absent-mindedly rubbing the collar around his neck – he got so used to Sam touching it the first few days that it’s odd not having that particular form of contact. It seems weird to him how uncomfy it was on the first few days, and he doesn’t really notice it anymore except for the pleasant weight and the tickle when he turns his head.  “Of course, I am only suggesting it as a way of getting you to fuck me again, because I’m pretty annoyed at how frigid you’ve gone today, so-“ Sam grabs his arm, and Dean flutters his eyelashes, ignoring how Sam is glaring at him.

                “Do you have any idea what it was like, seeing you like that?” he hisses. “You had bruises all over you, all around your neck, and they were _my fingerprints_ , Dean!” Sam’s bruising him _now_ , he thinks dimly, hands tight around his forearms, all his soft gentleness vanished. Sam’s always been his little brother so he’s never really considered, not before they came here, that Sam is so much bigger and stronger than he is. Some of it is innate Alpha strength, but Sam is incredibly muscular, and if he wanted to he could probably crush Dean’s bones with barely any effort at all, squeeze the life out of him without breaking a sweat.

But it’s not about what he can do, physically – it’s about what he would, or wouldn’t do. Sam gets upset about animals dying, about children suffering; he’s the gentle, kind one. He’s the one who puts witnesses at ease and charms old ladies with a shrug and a flash of dimples. Sam is a _good person_. Dean wishes he knew how to make him understand that.

 

They’ve managed to track down Laura’s mother, still alive and living only an hour and a half away from the resort. she’s quite nice in a stuffy sort of way, offering them tea and cookies and saying how lovely it is that they’re visiting (their excuse is that Dean was a younger friend of Laura’s and the fact that he knows almost nothing about Laura and has never met her mother before in his life apparently doesn’t matter at all to her when she’s given the opportunity to natter for hours – she even convinces herself that she remembers him within the first five minutes of their arrival). Of course, once she starts actually talking, Dean’s opinion of her worsens by the second.

                “We were a little worried about Laura at first,” she says, “You must remember what she was like, Dean. So rebellious!” she takes a sip of tea and Dean munches his cookie so he doesn’t have to reply. They’re pretty good actually. “Her father and I thought she’d be one of those Omegas you hear about sometimes, who never get mated. How embarrassing! When Mr Burnham showed an interest in her, though, she changed. Stopped talking about all that independence nonsense, as if Omegas don’t need an Alpha to take care of them,” she gives Dean a patronising little smile at that which makes him want to get up and slam her head against the table until it’s nothing but pulp. “That’s soulmates for you, though.”

                “Soulmates?” says Dean, unable to believe that Laura’s mother – someone who was meant to take care of her, notice when things were wrong – was so blind to the abuse her daughter suffered. “I don’t know,” he chances, hesitantly,” I never really saw her after she was mated-“

                “No, of course not!” her mother says. He notices now, that she never really directs any questions to him, and speaks to him as though she’s sure he has difficulty understanding her. It’s making him edgy and nervous, as if he’s a misbehaving child. Or a dog. “A good Alpha wouldn’t let their Omega out unaccompanied, would they? And Mr Burnham was so busy all the time.” She turns to Sam, “I mean, I’m sure you wouldn’t let a pretty thing like Dean out all by himself, would you?” She laughs and it feels like she’s punched him.

To his credit, Sam’s being very subtle and just about restraining himself from growling and baring his teeth at her.

                “Of course not,” he says, in a voice that sounds only a little bit like he’s chewing a mouthful of nails. Laura’s mother doesn’t even seem to notice.

                “Oh, he was lovely. He bought her such lovely presents! She always looked so pretty.” She turns back to Dean briefly. “You remember how she used to say she’d never wear a collar!” She pauses, considering him. “It’s funny, you seem so sweet and obedient,” Dean stiffens at that, thinking that that’s definitely not an impression that he wants to give off ever, before he remembers that most of the time, people just see a collar and presume they know every aspect of your personality. It takes a lot of effort to keep listening to her, and he comforts himself by leaning against Sam and giving her his very best ‘vacant bimbo’ smile.

“Yes, he was lovely,” Laura’s mother is blabbering. “And so rich! He really managed to teach her what it means to be an Omega. Some Alphas these days just can’t, but he was a real Alpha, one who knew how to keep an Omega in their place.” Sam looks about half a second away from tearing her head off, but she remains completely unaware. “It was very sad when she died – we all loved her very much.” She sighs, looking sorrowful. Dean doesn’t feel sorry for her in the least. “Omegas are such delicate things, aren’t they? But it’s awful when they die, such a tragedy. I think Laura needed a lot of attention, maybe it would have been better if she’d been mated to an Alpha who didn’t work so hard. But he wouldn’t have had half so much money then, would he?”

 

                “Jesus,” says Dean as soon as they’re out of hearing range. “I’m surprised Laura didn’t kill mommy dearest first, what a _bitch_.” He’s keeping his tone as light as possible, figuring it’s for the best when Sam is practically steaming.

It’s pouring with rain as they walk to the car, catching in Dean’s collar and dripping from his eyelashes. Sam’s hair is plastered to his face in dark, wet waves. They’re not at the car yet, but Dean stops, and looks up at him. Sam’s always looked beautiful in the rain, even if Dean has never really allowed himself to notice it before. Something about the way his skin goes shiny, cheekbones highlighted and gleaming in the low light, is ethereal, almost otherworldly. Sam stress back at him for a bit, there’s a soft look of pain and adoration on his face, and Dean wonders if Sam thinks he’s beautiful in the rain too, the barriers he puts up against the world washed away.

Or perhaps he’s afraid, now that he sees that Dean’s just an Omega, and how the world thinks of him. How he truly looks when he can’t pretend any more. Because that’s the truth of it – he hasn’t been pretending to be an Omega the past few days, he’s been showing that hidden side of himself. And for part of him, and it’s a part he hates, still, it was easier to smile and play stupid with Laura’s mother than to actually take in what she was saying, actually listen to her words enough to get upset.

He just wishes he could somehow convey all of this to Sam, but somehow he can’t find the words.

                “People shouldn’t be allowed to even _think_ like that,” says Sam, “it’s disgusting.” He runs his hands through his hair. “And it disgusts me that people would think I’d treat _you_ like that – just take what I want from you – and actually _encourage_ that. Actually think it’s what’s _right_. What’s _wrong_ with people?” Dean laughs, aware that it sounds a little strained and nervous.

                “Well, I’ve said it before,” he says, “monsters I get. People are crazy.” He pauses. “It’s not like we have to go along with them. It’s not like we have to think like they do.” Sam still won’t look at him and he lays a hand on Sam’s bicep. “We already say a big ‘fuck you’ to regular society with our day-to-day existence. Who cares how the rest of the world works.” Sam does look at him now, and Dean takes the opportunity to pull him down into a kiss. He’s trying to pour all of his feelings into it, everything he’s afraid to say, and when he pulls back, Sam is smiling. It’s a sad smile, but it’s better than nothing.

                “Fuck the world, then?” Sam says, with only a hint of bitterness.

                “Yeah,” says Dean, “and everyone in it. You and me, man, we’re all that matters.”

 

\--

 

So this was later than I promised - I've been really busy lately so the updates might be a tad slower (every three or four days rather than every other day, but I'll try to stay as regular as possible).

Comments welcome as always!


	8. Day Six (Part One)

Sam’s relaxed enough to be smiling again by the next morning – even with the threat of a homicidal ghost looming over them – to the point where he’s the one who suggests going down to breakfast.

It’s the same food they’ve had all the time they’ve been here, but Dean’s brioche and maple bacon tastes even better when he sees Sam so clearly enjoying his own fruit salad. He’s distracted so much that when Sam suddenly stops, his eyes narrowed the way they always are when he’s sniffing out a clue, Dean almost grabs his wrist to tell him to eat up like he would have done when they were ten and six.

He’s really glad he didn’t.

Sam’s gaze is locked on a Beta woman in her early forties, attractive in a nondescript sort of way, who’s placing hot pastries (apple danishes, _pain au chocolat_ , and _wow is that pecan pie?_ Dean’s definitely going to have some of that) on the serving table with metal tongs.

                “Should I be jealous?” he asks Sam through a mouthful of sweet bread and salty bacon, “you always did go for older women.” Sam doesn’t even scowl at him, still staring at the woman.

                “Her bracelet – it’s the same one Laura was wearing when she appeared in our room.” Dean looks, and Sam’s absolutely right. He’s quite proud of Sam’s eye for detail right now, because he’d never have noticed. It’s a delicate piece of jewellery – platinum, probably, interspersed with jade and lapis lazuli – and he wonders if it’s one of the ‘lovely presents’ Geoffery Burnham had given to Laura. Before he killed her. Sam stands and walks towards her, dean following (he brings his plate with him, no sense missing out on an opportunity for pie).

Dean helps himself, and when she’s finished putting out the last of the pastries, Sam tentatively engages the Beta woman.

                “That’s a lovely bracelet,” he says, and it’s always remarkable how something that would sound like a come-on coming out of Dean’s mouth really just sounds like curiosity when it’s said by Sam. The woman blushes (well, older women have always gone for Sam too, funny how these things work), and fiddles with the bracelet.

                “Thankyou. I’ve had it for years – since before this place was a resort.” Sam smiles encouragingly at her, his eyes bright and interested. “It belonged to a girl who lived here – she gave it to me.”

                “ah, yes. I thought it lookd familiar. It’s terrible – about what happened to her, I mean.” Sam’s still smiling, but a flash of fear crosses the Beta’s face.

                “Yes, just awful. How did you-“

“We knew the family,” Dean interjects. “Laura was a nice girl. Did you know her well?” Best to keep it to a vague ‘we knew them but not very well’ association-by-general-benefit-of-being-rich-people sort of thing so that no one here realises their intentions – if anyone finds out they’ve done extensive research into exactly who’s died and when on these grounds, the best they can hope for is that they come off as excessively morbid weirdos, which wouldn’t be good for research. The Beta’s face softens a little.

“Quite well,” she says, her eyes misting over a little with nostalgia. “She was very quiet though, and Mr Burnham-“ she cuts off, tight-lipped. “I’m sorry, I don’t like to speak ill of the dead. But I don’t think he treated Laura very well.” Dean nods.

“We don’t either.” The Beta looks around, as though a little afraid, but this is obviously something she has no desire to keep under wraps, unlike the rest of the staff who refuse to talk about it, or Laura’s mother who refused to even acknowledge that anything was wrong.

“I never saw him actually _do_ anything,” she says in a half-whisper, pointlessly because almost everyone else has cleared out of the dining hall now, with only a couple of memebers of staff clearing plates on the other side of the room, but Dean supposes that in a place like this you never know who could be listening. “But Laura was so sparky when she first arrived. And then… she stopped eating. She was so pale.” She looks sad, toying with the ends of her fingers twitchily. “She wouldn’t talk to anyone by the end, not even me.” A tear rolls down her cheek and she wipes it away almost angrily. “She had a lovely singing voice – I’m sure you know – and she stopped singing. A few people said th-that Mr Burnham wouldn’t let her, her voice was only for him to hear. We were all scared of him.” She looks terrified now. “I’m sorry – I shouldn’t be saying this.” She looks ready to run away.

“It’s ok,” says Sam. “We, er, didn’t really like him either. And we’d like to know what happened to Laura. Even if it’s horrible.” He’s really broken out the puppy eyes now, looks so earnest and trustworthy that he could probably be standing in a room full of bodies, up to his elbows in blood, and persuade the police he had nothing to do with it.

“I think he killed her,” she went on, and even though they’ve known that for days now they both manage to look shocked and appalled. It’s quite a good performance really. “He was very jealous, which was silly because Laura never even _looked_ at anyone else. She couldn’t have, even if she wanted to – he kept her locked up and collared – oh gosh, sorry, I didn’t mean-” she says, eyes widening as though she’s only just remembered Dean’s wearing a collar right now, in front of her, “I’m sure you’re happy, but Laura just wasn’t _meant_ to be collared, you know? Some Omegas are.” Dean supposes he should probably feel insulted by that statement, but instead he feel confused. He’s starting to like the feeling of being owned, but he knows it’s a betrayal of everything he’s ever thought. And Laura… Laura would probably be disgusted by him.

Suddenly something clicks into place.

                “Laura didn’t agree with collaring,” he says, not phrasing it as a question, but as a statement of fact. The Beta shakes her head.

                “She told me once that she thought it was barbaric. That people should be free – she said that Alphas and Omegas should be equal in their relationships, instead of one owning the other.” She looks very apologetic, and Dean supposes this must be difficult for her – she thinks she’s disparaging their lifestyle right in front of them ( _What would she say if she knew we were brothers?_ He wonders, and has to tighten his jaw to keep the nervous grin off his face). “The day she died, she tried to take off her collar – in the hall, in front of Mr Burnham’s guests. She hadn’t done anything, or said anything, up ‘til that point, just got quieter and quieter. I never saw her again after that.” She stops, clearly at the end of her story, and unwilling to say more.

                “I’m sorry,” says Sam, “you were obviously close to her.” She sighs and turns to wheel away the breakfast cart.

                “When he died, I really hoped it was her, you know. Come back to get him. He deserved it.”

                “I know,” says Dean.

 

 

                “I know why she killed the Omegas too,” says Dean as they leave the breakfast hall. Sam looks puzzled.

                “I kind of figured it was an accident. That she was just trying to kill the Alphas and overdid it – too much power and the Omegas got blasted. And why didn’t she kill Jackson? Wasn’t it just because she got interrupted?”

                “I thought so too – but I don’t think she only cared about getting revenge on Alphas. She _hated_ collared Omegas.” He takes a deep breath and continues. “When she was in our room the other night, you thought she was just talking to you. What if she was talking to me as well? ‘You can’t have me’…”

                “She didn’t want to become like one of y- er, I mean, what people think of when they think of Omegas? She was angry with her own kind too.” Sam’s nodding thoughtfully, looking happier than Dean had thought he would. He supposes revealing that a vengeful spirit’s hatred is a little more equal-opportunity that previously thought will do that to you. Dean decided to ignore his little slip purely because sulking right now would not be conducive to successful hunting.

                “Exactly! She didn’t kill Jackson because he was like her – he hated being an Omega. With good reason, too, his Alpha was a total dick. So when she killed the other Omegas, she was doing it because she thought they were weak, she was pissed off that they were doing what was expected of them – accepting their collars, taking a knot willingly…” Dean trails off, realising something else which snaps him out of the euphoria of putting a few more pieces of the case together. “But that means you’re not the only one who’s in danger from her. I am too.”

The words have only just left his mouth when he realises what he’s said – and what those words imply – but it’s too late to take them back. And with Sam looking at him the way he’s looking now, Dean’s not sure he wants to.

 

-

 

A short chapter today, I'm afraid, but with some much-needed plot development - I probably won't be able to update until Wednesday or Thursday so I wanted to give you guys something to tide you over!

Comments always welcome! Love you all xxx


	9. Day Six (Part Two)

                “I’m not sure if I understand exactly what you’re saying,” Sam says slowly. He looks nervous and Dean kinda hates him for making him do this.

                “For fuck’s sake, haven’t we been through this already?” He can feel heat creeping up his neck – he’s always hated that he blushes when he’s embarrassed, Sam never has. “I want… I want to be yours. I’ve said it, ok? I want you to be my Alpha.” He’s half-expecting Sam to make some sort of ‘aw, are you proposing?’ joke, but Sam’s never been the type to make light about this sort of thing. Instead, he pulls Dean in for a kiss. His mouth tastes sweet, and Dean thinks that’s more than just the lingering taste of mango and passion fruit.

                “I know,” says Sam, “I mean, I was kinda waiting for you to say it before I said anything. I mean,  I don’t wanna push you or-“ Dean kisses him again, and he’s pretty sure that’s settled it.

 

 

 

Putting aside any discussion to do with the new status of their relationship – good thing too, Dean was worried he’ll have to wave goodbye to his tough guy rep forever if either one of them makes even just one more saccharine-sweet romantic declaration of love and dedication – they’re back to talking about the ghost situation, which is looking more and more hopeless the more they learn about it.

                “I’m seriously starting to think we might just have to burn the place down,” says Dean. “Or we could bring Laura’s mother here and let her have one last little chat with her daughter, I still say it’s all her fault.” If nothing else, Dean thinks he’d like to pay her a visit afterwards and tell her what he really thinks of her. Maybe pour glue in her hair. He smirks a little at the mental image.

                “Right, sure, that’ll work,” says Sam, “just because she’s a terrible person doesn’t mean it’s ok to kill her. Or play any potentially heart attack-inducing pranks, Dean,” he adds with a sly smile of his own that indicates Dean wasn’t being as subtle with his revenge fantasies as he thought. Dean laughs and ignores the jibe.

                “Well I don’t know what you suggest,” he says, “we have no body, no way of finding any last lingering remains which are hidden under the resort – and even if we could, we don’t know what they’d be. I mean, what did psycho dude do? Cut off one of her fingers and kept it in a pickle jar or something?” He throws his hands up in exasperation.

                “Maybe there’s some of her hair somewhere? It’s always hair.”

                “Yeah, well, you’re the expert in that area.”

                “Shut up.”

 

 

 

They’ve skipped almost all of the resort’s lunches so far, too busy researching or trying to avoid addressing certain aspects of their relationship (Dean’s slightly embarrassed to admit that in his own brain he’s still having trouble admitting to himself that those ‘certain aspects’ basically boil down to his deep-seated issues about being an Omega and his still-persistent shame about finally giving into his nature – and for Sam, of all Alphas – and Sam’s worries about hurting Dean, which is something that’s possibly even more embarrassing than his own hang-ups, which make him feel like enough of a girl as it is), so neither of them are quite sure what to expect when they actually attend one.

Felicity and Amanda wave them over with eager smiles as soon as they make eye contact, and they make their way over (it would be rude not to, he supposes). Dean really hopes they haven’t inadvertently managed to cultivate some kind of ‘couples friendship’ or something, and mentally scrambles for excuses to give when they’re inevitably invited to brunch or doubles tennis.

The food smells amazing, and Dean feels a twinge of regret about eating lunch at diners for the past few days. It was really just an excuse to get away from the resort, which, don’t get him wrong, is still stifling as hell, but with no new leads they may as well stick around for the free food and put up with the mandatory social niceties.

Lunch seems to be an ordering-off-the-menu affair, and Dean decides on steak before he’s even got settled in Sam’s lap. It’s a little ridiculous how the staff seem to insist on different chairs for each meal – armchairs for breakfast, stiff mahogany dining chairs for dinner, and now polished and intricately carved rosewood for lunch. You’d think that if they had so many chairs, they could manage to put out enough for everyone instead of encouraging Omegas to sit on their Alphas’ laps – which seems a little sleazy to Dean, really, even if he is starting to enjoy it.

While Sam struggles to decide between salads (it seems to be a toss-up between pear and Roquefort with walnut and beef carpaccio with rocket and truffle oil), Dean braces himself for small talk. It’s not exactly what he gets.

                “So,” says Felicity, “something really weird happened last night.” Amanda laughs nervously.

                “It wasn’t anything at all.” She turns to Dean. “Don’t worry – we had a bit too much to drink and thought we saw-“

                “A ghost!” Felicity claps her hands over her mouth immediately afterwards, obviously a little embarrassed by her outburst. Dean thinks she should be more embarrassed by how excited she sounded, but then he supposes most people haven’t had the same level of exposure to ghosts that he and Sam have had.

                “Really?” he says, trying to sound as casual as possible. Felicity glares at him.

                “Yes, really, and don’t sound so dismissive – I know you already talked to Jackson about it after Thomas died.”

                “What?” he isn’t really prepared for this – mostly how Felicity keeps wrong-footing him by being all perceptive instead of desperate not to get involved in other peoples’ lives like civilians usually are. She’s looking at him like he’s an idiot.

                “I was worried about him, so I found it his number and gave him a call.” Her expression softens a little. “He’s back living with his parents, by the way, but he told me that he told _you_ about the ghost he saw – which was the same ghost we saw. He thought he imagined it, but we saw it too! We can’t _both_ have imagined it, right?”

                “Right,” says Dean slowly. Normally they only discuss their cases with civilians when it’s absolutely, unquestionably, 100% necessary. This doesn’t feel like that at all, not to mention that it’s very fair from the usual situation he discusses ghosts with people who aren’t his family members in – there’s bright sunshine streaming in through the windows, he’s sitting in his brother’s lap, and someone is bringing him a steak which, though he doesn’t want to get his hopes up too much, will probably be the best steak he’s ever tasted. It’s all very odd, to say the least.

                “Ooh,” says Felicity, sounding obnoxiously enthusiastic. Dean grits his teeth and restrains himself from slapping her. It helps that this is the moment his steak arrives, and it smells so good that he almost swoons. “I’ve never been anywhere haunted before!”

                “Yeah, really not as exciting as it sounds,” says Sam, clearly also gritting his teeth as he digs a fork into his salad (he went for the beef carpaccio, and Dean isn’t a salad guy at all, but looking at Sam’s plate he reckons he could probably live with eating salad if it all looked as good as that). “Also? Dangerous as hell.” That wipes the smile off Felicity’s face a little, although she seems to be one of those people who’d still look cheerful even in the very worst of situations. “It killed Thomas.”

                “That was because he was an awful person though, right? I mean, it’s sad he’s dead and all, but…”

                “Are we in danger?” It’s Amanda, who thankfully doesn’t seem to share Felicity’s enthusiasm for the supernatural. “What does the ghost want?”

                “Pretty much the same as all vengeful spirits,” says Dean through a mouthful of steak (it’s even better than he expected – when he leaves he’s going to raid the kitchen and steal as much beef as he can cram into the Impala), “mayhem and murder.”

                “We think she’s killing off people who remind her of the people she resented in life – that means Alphas who remind her of the Alpha who killed her, and any Omegas who accept collaring willingly,” says Sam. He doesn’t sound happy about explaining what’s going on, but it’s probably for the best.

                “Why would she be resentful of collared Omegas?” Amanda looks genuinely shocked. “Collaring is meant to be an honour, something that represents love and trust, and protection from their Alpha.”

                “Because plenty of Alphas don’t see it that way,” says Felicity. “They see it as a way of controlling their Omega. An ownership, not a partnership.” She meets Dean’s eyes, and Dean feels a surge of companionship with her, his fellow Omega.  It’s hard for Alphas to understand , he thinks, the degradation an Omega feels when they’re treated like property, when an Alpha thinks that just because of (what they see as) their superior sexual status, they can do whatever they want.

There’s an awkward silence after that, which Dean tries not to interrupt by making yum-yum noises as he works steadily through his steak. Amanda looks a little ashamed, and Dean supposes it must be hard for her to realise that Felicity has probably suffered through situations that Amanda’s ignored completely – or that she didn’t even acknowledge as real. Still, it’s her who eventually speaks up.

                “How do you know all of this?” It comes off as a little suspicious which ranks in the definitely-not-good category.

                “We’re… er…” starts Dean.

                … ghost hunters,” finishes Sam hesitantly. _Oh, that is_ so _not what Dean was going for_. “We heard the resort might be haunted, so that was just… another reason why we came… as well as for the… experience.” He’s visibly sweating, to the point where Dean thinks he might have to disentangle himself to keep from getting drenched.

                “Oh cool,” says Felicity, with such easy acceptance that Dean almost reels back. It’s strange, he doesn’t think she’s stupid. Just that she believes in people. Amanda still looks suspicious – it would be nice if some of Felicity’s easy-going nature could rub off on her.

                “So,” continues Sam, looking so immensely relieved that Dean is half-tempted to tell him to calm it down a bit, “If you see anything, could you tell us about it? We don’t want anyone getting hurt.”

                “Sure,” says Amanda hesitantly, and that seems to settle the matter. The rest of the meal is somewhat tense, but dessert is crème brulee, and although it’s never something Dean would order out in public, it’s delicious enough that he doesn’t care how much of a girl it makes him, and it puts him in a good enough mood to not be worried at all about the possible blowing of their cover by the time they stand up to leave. Amanda’s still a little cold, but then she always has been, and Felicity’s excited enough at the prospect of a potential ‘ghost hunt’ that her bubbliness more than covers for both of them.

                “Oh, one more thing,” says Dean just before they turn around to leave. “The ghost only attacks people while they’re – what’s the term, Sam?”

                “ _En flagrante_ ,” says Sam dramatically with a completely straight face. Amanda looks mortified but Felicity bursts into peals of laughter.

                “We weren’t! Oh my God, I swear! We were out by the poolhouse-“

                “-behaving ourselves completely,” interjects Amanda, as though anyone cares.

                “-it’s really nice, you know it was built about a century ago? It’s the oldest part of the resort. the rest of it’s all really recent…” she trails off as Sam and Dean share a frantic look. “What?”

                “If the poolhouse was around when Laura – the ghost – died,” says Sam.

                “-then there could be something there that’s keeping her spirit around!” Dean doesn’t even register the fact that he and Sam have apparently moved on to the same finishing-each-others’-sentences level of their relationship that apparently Felicity and Amanda are on – he’s too busy wrapping Felicity in a bone-crushing hug.

Maybe being friends with them isn’t so bad after all.

 

\--

 

I will try my best to have Sam and Dean get rid of this ghost asap so that schmoop and detailed descriptions of insanely expensive bed linen getting ruined can ensue.

Comments welcome as always!


	10. Day Six (Part Three)

They wait for the cover of darkness to investigate he poolhouse, which means the afternoon passes in a haze of boredom and anxious anticipation.

                “We might not even find anything,” says Dean, idly scratching at a smudge on their coffee table while Sam goes through their research on the resort’s grounds for the tenth time. “Maybe Laura was just hanging out by the pool for fun. Ghosts need time to chill out too.”

                “If it’s all about the poolhouse,” says Sam, completely ignoring Dean, “why were all the victims killed in their bedrooms? People probably have sex in the poolhouse all the time,” (Dean smirks and nods enthusiastically) “so it just doesn’t make sense.”

                “What’s bothering me,” says Dean, choosing not to actually reply to Sam’s (admittedly sensible) question, “is that the more we learn about Laura, the more it makes no sense at all that she’d have fallen for this Burnham guy in the first place.” He pauses, “ I’d almost say that her other might have sold her to him, but I honestly think she thought Laura was genuinely in love with the guy.” He shrugs. “Whatever, I suppose it doesn’t matter, s’long as we stop her from killing anyone else.”

-

The poolhouse looks beautiful in the dark, lit only by clusters of tiny fairy lights and the moon’s reflection off the water. If this was a different situation, being out here on a night like tonight, balmy but not too hot, a warm breeze rustling through the trees and blowingthe smell of roses and apple blossom through the air, it could be incredibly romantic. Sam catches his eye and smiles, and for a moment they just stand and appreciate the solitude and beauty around them.

It doesn’t last long.

                “Ok hunters, let’s get hunting,” says Dean grimly, pulling out his EMF reader and double-checking his pockets for their extra salt rounds. He’s not really expecting anything too awful to happen, given that Felicity and Amanda had had an apparently rather benign encounter with their ghost out here, but that doesn’t mean he’s taking any chances.

 

 

The pool house is, predictably, covered in EMF, so much so that at first it’s hard to pin down exactly where the bulk of it is coming from. Dean’s running it up and down the walls, checking every brick.

                “It’s always the walls,” he says, “always a body or some goddamn trophy box full of teeth.” He shudders. “God, I hope it’s not teeth.” Sam laughs – quietly, because being caught out here with a heap of ghost hunting equipment by the staff could be potentially even worse than being caught by the ghost.

                “You should’ve worn gloves, “says Sam, testing the floorboards under his feet. He pauses for a second.

                “Found something?”

                “Over here,” says Sam, crouching low to the ground and snatching the reader out of Dean’s hand. He combs it over the floorboards until it gives off a particularly loud screech.

                “Ok, you win this time,” Dean mutters, “next time it’ll be the walls, guarantee it.”

-

Pulling up the floorboards without damaging them (too much) is ridiculously time-consuming.

“Why is this taking so long?” Dean hisses, wiping sweat away from his forehead.

“To be fair, the places we usually dig up aren’t so well-maintained,” says Sam wryly. “The poolhouse might be an old-ish building, but this floor has definitely been replaced in the last few years.

Dean is about half a second away from giving up and hacking the entire floor into splinters when Sam pulls out a small, metal box. They run the EMF reader over it, and it screeches encouragingly.

The box is old, gone green and orange from its close proximity to the water. There’s a padlock on it, warped and crusted over with rust. It’s ominous-looking, and Dean’s been in this business long enough to trust his instincts. There’s something terrible inside, he’s sure of it. Sam wipes at some of the dust coating it, revealing the same symbol that had been stamped all over the records they’d gone through the last few days – Geoffery Burnham’s coat of arms (Dean had snorted and called him a pretentious asshole, but he couldn’t deny that it was useful identification). Dean and Sam share a look of grim satisfaction. This is definitely what they’re looking for.

Dean glances around the poolhouse as Sam hammers at the padlock with the butt of his gun – the last thing they want right now is a surprise visit from their ghost – especially if she realises they’re about to blast her out of existence forever. Behind him, Sam makes a triumphant noise as the lock gives, immediately followed by a sharp, panicked intake of breath.

                “Shit, shit, shit – Dean look at this.” Dean’s already whirled around and sitting next to him as he finishes babbling, adding the glow from his own flashlight to Sam’s, illuminating the contents of the box in stark, florescent light.

                “Shit,” he echoes, as the box’s content finally, horribly registers.

In the box, lit up bright as day, isn’t just one lock of hair. There are dozens, varying lengths and colours, some straight and fine, some thick and curly, all bundled together like a gruesome parody of baby mice.

Even more disturbingly, Laura’s hair – long, wavy and brown – doesn’t seem to be among the trophies.

 

 

                “So he was a serial killer,” says Dean, rubbing a towel through his hair and sprawling on the couch. The box of hair is sitting on the coffee table, a thick line of rock salt around it (which looks ridiculous but Dean has to admit is necessary).

                “Twenty-six locks of hair in total. All tied together with the same gold thread, and – get this – _labelled with tiny little nametags_.” Sam throws up his hands in disgust as he says this, and Dean wrinkles his nose sympathetically.

                “Laura’s hair?” He thinks he might already know the answer.

                “Not here.”

                “Typical.” Dean sighs. “We should burn it. Just in case. You’ve written all the names down?” Sam nods, and Dean fishes his lighter out of his jeans pocket. He hesitates as he holds it over the now-jumbled hair. “We’ll find out what happened to you, all of you.”

The fire burns for hardly any time at all, but Dean can smell it for hours.

 

\--

 

I'm so sorry this chapter is so short! I've been really busy, and I didn't want to take a whole week to update, so I figured something was better than nothing. Next chapter probably won't be up until Saturday, but I promise it'll be longer!

Comments welcome as always!


	11. Day Seven

As soon as breakfast is cleared away the next morning, Dean corners the Beta woman he’d spoken to the day before. Sam is close behind, a concerned expression on his face that Dean feels is overkill until he sees how alarmed the Beta is, and then catches his own reflection in one of the overly-polished wood panels that line the walls of the dining room.

                “Er,” he starts, and realises he doesn’t know her name. Not the best way to endear himself. “You were Laura’s friend, right?” he garbles quickly, restraining himself from grabbing her. He’s felt worked up since last night – fury and sadness building up all through the night. After hours of tossing and turning, Sam had grabbed him, pulled him close, and stroked his hair until he was calm enough to stay still, but not enough to sleep without dreams full of fire and screaming.

                “Y-yes, but I told you everything I know.” Dean shakes his head, and Sam holds out the piece of paper with the names they’d found last night.

                “Do any of these names mean anything to you?” She takes it hesitantly and reads it, chewing her lip and shaking her head a little.

                “No. Why?” She pauses and looks around. “Look, I really do want to help, but this might not be the best place.” Dean braces himself for the inevitable brush-off as the Beta starts moving away, but she beckons them to follow her, and they do until they’re in a small-ish room that looks as though it might be used for conferences. Or possibly massages, it’s impossible to tell in this place.

The Beta takes a deep breath. “What exactly do you want to know?” She says. Her hands are shaking slightly, and Sam takes the paper back.

                “You worked for Geoffery Burnham, and you know he killed Laura,” Dean thinks Sam maybe shouldn’t have sounded so sure about that last part, but the Beta is nodding even though she still looks terrified. “We… we have reason to believe that she may not have been his first victim.”

He’s slipping into professionalism, something that comes easily and sounds slick, but doesn’t really match with the ‘trust fund kid’ story they gave the staff, and Dean panics internally a little when the Beta’s eyes cloud with suspicion for a moment, before her expression evens out.

                “Oh thank God,” she says, and doesn’t seem to notice their twin expressions of surprise. “I thought someone should have investigated years ago.” Well, that’s a relief. Sam nods politely, and she takes a deep breath and continues. “Before Laura, there were a lot of… he had a lot of ‘guests’, extremely temporary guests if you know what I mean.” Dean raises his eyebrows. “Prostitutes,” she says quietly, avoiding Dean’s gaze as though the word might offend his delicate sensibilities.

                “And?” prompts Dean, slightly annoyed by her attempted mollycoddling. “Plenty of guys enjoy a little high-priced companionship, doesn’t mean they’re all murderers.”

                “I never saw them leave.” She stops and runs a hand over her face. “I mean, I never saw him kill them, I never heard anything – but I didn’t _hear_ him hurt Laura either. He didn’t really want to have her living with him, you know. His family were worried that he wouldn’t settle down and have a kid – a legitimate one, yknow. I don’t know how they met though. Laura used to say she had psychic powers, y’know? I never really believed her, but, um… anyway that doesn’t have anything to do with this.” She stops, taking a deep, shaky breath as though trying to steady herself. Sam looks a little intrigued by her last statement, but she doesn’t seem to want to expand on her last statement, and when she looks up it’s with such a pathetic expression that Dean thinks, wildly, for a second, that she might confess to murder herself. “And there’s another thing,” she looks so guilty now, wringing her hands together. “After this place was bought again, they tore most of the old house down. But they kept the poolhouse. I was cleaning it out, and I found this – this box. Full of hair. I didn’t look at it very closely, but there were names on all of it. Maybe some of the names from that list, I don’t remember.” Sam makes a small, triumphant noise that Dean’s pretty sure only he can hear.

                “That was before the resort opened? And was Laura’s hair in the box?”

                “Yeah, right before.” She pauses, looking utterly stricken. “I know I should have told someone, but I was scared and-“

                “Was Laura’s hair in the box?” Sam doesn’t sound angry, exactly, but he’s got that edge of calm force in his voice that scares Dean a little, that reminds him that Sam is huge and strong (and ok, so that turns him on more than a little) and most people don’t see him as a big, harmless puppy, but as a threat.

                “Y-yes. It was,” the Beta is crying, and maybe it’s because she’s scared, but it seems like more than that. She feels guilty. She feels like she betrayed her friend.

                “It’s ok,” says Dean, “but we’re gonna need it.”

 

 

It’s actually pretty easy to get people to hand stuff over if they think you’re legitimate law enforcement, and luckily Dean’s seen enough episodes of Cold Case to spout off the necessary jargon. The Beta – Kate, she tells them before immediately panicking and begging them to keep her anonymous, which they assure her of with no qualms whatsoever – is clearly done with the whole ordeal, and not ten minutes after she’s pressed the lock of Laura’s hair into Dean’s hands with a plea for justice (he feels pretty bad that they’re going to just burn it, but Laura already got her revenge on the man who killed her, and it’s not fair that she’s killing other people too) he sees her being ushered out by the perky receptionist, who’s telling her to take two weeks off for stress.

Now, Sm and Dean are sitting in their room with Laura’s hair lying on the coffee table between them. It’s shining in the sunlight streaming in through the windows, looking so harmless that the salt and lighters they’re gripping look ridiculous – like fighting a puppy with a rocket launcher.

                “It’s weird doing this in the daytime,” says Dean as he fiddles with his lighter.

                “Unnatural,” Sam agrees. “Do you wanna…?” Dean sighs and picks up the lock of hair. It sizzles and crisps away to nothing in seconds.

                “The cleaning staff are gonna be wondering what kind of kinky shit we’ve been getting up to in here,” he says, wrinkling his nose. The smell of burnt hair from last night had only just started to fade and now it’s back with a vengeance. Maybe it’s just his imagination, but the smell now seems more potent.

                “That was… kind of an anti-climax,” says Sam, also attempting to wave the smell away. “I think I was sort of expecting her to show up again.”

                “Me too,” says Dean. He feels a little on edge, there doesn’t seem to be the air of finality which usually comes with the end of a hunt. He chews his lower lip a little, flicking the flame of his lighter on and off as he stares at the tiny pile of ash in front of him flaking away to nothing. Then Sam suddenly leans forward and catches Dean’s mouth with his own, and he leans into the kiss, fear melting away.

                “Let’s try out that bathtub,” says Dean, with an eyebrow wiggle he hopes is suitably suggestive. “Consider it a celebration. Or something.” Sam grins at him.

                “Race you there.”

 

 

The bathtub takes a surprisingly short amount of time to fill, considering its size.

                “Jesus,” says Dean, “you could have a party in here.”

                “I don’t think so,” says Sam with a wry smile as he peels off his shirt. The bathroom is already filling with steam, and Dean licks his lips as a droplet of sweat runs down Sam’s chest, before tearing off his own clothes and stepping into the tub after his brother with a sigh.

                “Wow,” he says, “bubbles and everything. You spoil me.” Sam laughs, low and promising, and pulls Dean against him so his back is pressed up against Sam’s chest. “This is nice,” he says pointlessly, the heat seeping into his skin and making him feel drowsy and relaxed. It should be too hot really, the water of the tub and Sam’s arms surrounding him with warmth, but instead it feels nice. Safe. The uneasiness he felt after watching Laura’s hair burn has gone now. _Hunt’s over_ , he thinks, _don’t have to worry about ghosts or monsters or demons for a whole week_.

He’s halfway to dropping off when Sam shifts behind him to turn on the bubbles.

                “Woah,” says Dean. “I’d forgotten about this part.”

                “You know,” says Sam, “I don’t think I’ve ever been in a Jacuzzi before.” Dean turns around to face him.

                “Dude, seriously? You’ve missed out. I clearly did a terrible job of raising you.”

                “When have _you_ been in a Jacuzzi?”

                “Her name was… er… Tania? Tatiana?” Dean thinks hard for a moment, straining to remember her name, that woman who’d given him his first taste of luxury. “I don’t remember. Older woman, Alpha, quite well-off. Had a Beta husband who’d gone out of town for business. Met her at a bar, one thing led to another, and, well-“ he’s cut off by a kiss from Sam, forceful and possessive. When Sam stops mauling his mouth, his eyes are dark, and Dean feels a little embarrassed at the shiver of lust he feels.

                “You’re not going to do that anymore, are you?” Sam’s voice is deep and dangerous, and his hands are holding tight to Dean’s forearms, caressing Dean’s skin with his thumbs, twisting him in a way which isn’t painful, but is a little uncomfortable.

                “N-no,” says Dean. “Of course not.” He turns himself around so he’s fully facing Sam, their faces barely an inch apart. “I’m yours.” Sam lets go of his arms, and he presses his hand against Sam’s chest, over his heart. His pulse is strong and steady, a little faster than normal. Sam closes the space between their mouths in a tender kiss, which becomes more frantic as he manhandles Dean into his lap, pulling him close against his chest. He’s hard, and Dean whimpers a little into his mouth as Sam lifts him a little more, stopping the friction against his groin. Dean pumps his hips needily against Sam a few times before he realises what Sam’s trying to do, and drops his head against Sam’s shoulder while Sam fingers him open, peppering kisses along Dean’s throat. It doesn’t take too long, but he still gasps a little in surprise when Sam eases his cock inside Dean’s ass.

It burns more without his heat, but he’s still wet enough that it fades quickly, replaced with shockwaves of pleasure, sharper and more real somehow than last time. Now that he’s not in heat he can concentrate on what he’s doing, he can remember to use the tricks he’s learnt until Sam’s the one panting desperately beneath him.

                “Holy shit,” says Sam as Dean twists his hips just so, changing his position a little and upping the tempo when he feels Sam’s knot starting to swell. He comes with a short, sharp cry of his brother’s name, just as Sam’s knot catches on the rim of his hole. Panting, he slows his movement and looks Sam in the eyes.

Sam’s cheeks are flushed and his pupils are blown so wide his eyes look almost black. He’s gripping Dean’s ass so hard he’s sure he’ll have bruises tomorrow, and the thought of having marks made by Sam’s hands all over his body sends another little surge of arousal through him, strung-out and lax from his orgasm as he is.

They don’t say anything for a while, just embrace each other, panting, as Sam continues pumping Dean full of come. Eventually, he’s the one who breaks the silence.

                “That was… I mean the first time set the bar to a new level but…”

                “I know,” says Dean smugly. “But we’re going to have to control ourselves a little.”

                “What? Why?” Sam sounds genuinely outraged, and Dean laughs at the worried expression on his face.

                “We have a job to do, dumbass. As great as this is, we need to limit ourselves.” He pauses. “To, maybe, twice a day.”

                “That’s it?”

                “Maximum four.”

                “Deal.”

 

\--

 

It's not over yet! There are still mysteries to be solved and incestuous buttsexing scenarios to be explored!

 

Comments welcome as always!


	12. Day Eight

Warning: future chapters will contain discussion and themes of terrorism (only briefly mentioned in this chapter).

 

Dean Winchester does not have massages. He does not go to spas, he does not let strangers touch his feet or put weird substances on his face. These are all solid facts that he knows for certain.

Which means that it’s very odd that, right now, he is heading off to get a full-body massage and beauty treatment at the Opus Amore spa, and feeling really quite pleased about it.

He hums to himself a little as he strolls down the white-washed corridor. _Jesus_ , he thinks, snapping himself out of his contentment for a moment, _I wonder what Dad would think if he knew about this. If he knew about_ any _of this._

                “Dean!” For a horrible moment it actually sounds like his Dad’s voice, and he stops absolutely still before mentally slapping himself when he realises the voice sounds nothing like his Dad’s at all. “Hey, Dean, wait up!” It’s Felicity, bouncing down the corridor with her usual exuberance. He smiles – it’s only half-faked, he’s in a pretty good mood and she’s a nice enough person, even if his tolerance for people in general (who aren’t Sam) is set at a pretty low bar.

                “Hey,” he says. She’s clearly come straight from the gym, dressed in sweatpants, red hair plastered to her face a little and pressing a bottle of cold water against her forehead, condensation dripping down her cheek.

                “How’s ghost-hunting?” she pants, grinning. Her eyes are sparkling with an excitement that Dean suspects means it’s not a casual question. He’s glad the hunts over – over-enthusiastic civilians can be even worse than disbelieving or terrified ones. At least Felicity has the sense to only talk about it when they’re alone in the corridor.

                “Yeah, yeah, we got it, hunt over. Success all round.” He sounds a bit more flippant than he means to. “You’re safe. Everyone’s safe.”

                “Oh.” She almost looks disappointed. “That’s good, I just did some research of my own, and I wondered if you might be interested?” Before he can answer, she rummages in her backpack and pulls out a sheaf of slightly crumpled papers.

                “Yeah, um, great,” says Dean, taking the papers from her. It’s quite nice to see her smiling, and he finds himself smiling back without having to think about it.

                “We could look through them together, if you like?” She looks hopeful, but as much as Dean likes her that’s not something he wants to do. It’s unlikely she’s found anything he and Sam don’t already know about, and even if she has, she’s not going to be helpful in going through the information.

                “No, that’s ok,” says Dean, “It’s really helpful, though. Thanks.” He’s relieved that it doesn’t come out grudgingly at all. Maybe he’s finally learning manners. “Anyway,” he continues, “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’m scheduled for a massage right now, so…” Felicity holds up a hand.

                “Say no more,” she chirps, “I totally understand. See you later, Dean!” And without another word or a backwards glance, she bounces off down the corridor.

 

 

The particular treatment he’s having offers ‘silky-smooth skin, irresistible to any Alpha’ which Dean pointedly did not tell Sam, although he’s not really sure if that’s because that description alone is several months’ worth of mocking material, or because he wants it to be a surprise. Being in a relationship with your brother is funny like that.

The Beta girls working in the spa are all professional, enthusiastic, absolutely gorgeous and completely uninterested in him. He flirts a little at first, but loses interest once he realises that when they ruffle his hair and call him ‘just the cutest thing _ever_ ’ it’s more in the way that you might talk about a puppy than anything else. That knocks him a little – he’s always been used to getting attention, admiration from all sorts of people. He’s not used to this cheek-pinching _well-aren’t-you-just-a-darling-thing_ acknowledgement of his looks and in a way it’s worse than the lurid come-ons he’s used to getting from Alphas who aren’t fooled by his suppressants. He’s almost tempted to stand up and scream in their faces that, at twenty-seven and over six feet tall, treating him as though he’s some kind of tiny, adorable kitten is, quite frankly, ridiculous.

Still, once he’s face down on the table and getting some kind of magical liquid that smells a little like distilled happiness rubbed into his skin, he doesn’t think he’s even up for moving, let alone making some sort of stand about how he should or shouldn’t be talked to. If these people can make him feel this good, maybe he can forgive a little infantilising chatter. Just about.

 

 

Sam’s lying on his stomach on one of the deckchairs by the pool, clearly engrossed in something on his laptop. For all Dean knows, it could be anything from articles of quantum theory to amusing videos of cats. Sam looks happy, he thinks, the time off (sort of) has been good for both of them.

Dean creeps up behind him and kisses him on the cheek.

                “Dean?” Sam sounds a little worried. Dean supposes his behaviour is a little unusual (for him, anyway, Sam loves all this girly PDA stuff), so he leans back and ruffles Sam’s hair.

                “Watcha doin’, nerd?” Sam rolls his eyes, but launches into an explanation the same way he did when he was eleven and found everything he read in a textbook just the coolest thing ever.

                “Did you know that scientists now believe that the Salem Witch Trials were-“ Dean cuts him off.

                “Don’t care. Why can’t you just watch porn, like a normal person?”

                “Don’t need to when you’re such a slut.” Sam’s smiling – it’s nice that they can rib each other gently like this, and it’s become more than friendly banter really, more like foreplay. Dean licks lips and cocks his head, smiling a little when he sees Sam’s pupils dilate slightly. “You look different.” He sniffs. “And you _smell_ different. What is that?” Dean shrugs.

                “I took advantage of some of the perks this fine establishment has to offer. You like?”

                “Definitely.” Dean barely has time to register the growl in Sam’s voice before he’s being pinned back against the sun lounger and tongue-fucked until he’s completely out of breath.

                “Good,” he pants finally. “I was a little worried you wouldn’t notice. Wouldn’t want to be one of those needy girlfriend types who gets all pissy when no one realises they’ve just bought new shoes.

 

 

Dean completely forgets all about Felicity’s research until mid-afternoon, when Sam’s gamely attempting to clear up the last traces of ash from their suite. The damn stuff gets everywhere. They’ve still got all the salt lines set, although at this point that’s less due to any actual risk and more because it’s just what they’re used to.

                “If we ever get a house,” says Dean absentmindedly as he touches up one of the windows, “we’ll have to get the salt painted in or something.”

                “Devils’ Trap rugs,” Sam agrees, before looking at him curiously. “Hold on, are you saying you want to get a house? Settle down? I thought you liked life on the road.”

                “I do!” protests Dean. He’s never really considered even the possibility of having a home, a real home, with four walls and decent carpets and no weird unidentifiable stains on the mattresses. But then, he never considered that he’d ever be a mated Omega, collared and claimed. At least he’s managed not to go completely normal – it’s pretty weird for your Alpha to also be your _brother_ after all – but he’s still in a situation he never thought happened to people like him. “Maybe someday,” he concedes. Sam nods, and when Dean searches wildly for a change of conversation, he remembers Felicity’s papers.

 

 

Just as Dean predicted, it’s mostly stuff they already knew. Reading about every awful thing Laura went through at the hands of her Alpha is just as depressing this time around, but Dean feels an extra pang of pity with each one of Geoffery Burnham’s documented crime – and anger that no one did anything when Laura was alive, that the only revenge she could take was in death.

When they get to the last few pages, however, Dean realises that somehow Felicity got her hands on some papers neither he nor Sam had seen. It’s just an itinerary for a two-week trip to an Omega camp – one of the ones which were outlawed just a few years ago, where Omegas would be trained in order to better please their Alphas. He shudders at the memory of a teacher pulling him aside when he was fourteen, and giving him one of the leaflets. They’d been all bright colours, smiling photos, and lies. Terrible things had happened at almost every single one – abuse so awful that the government was still trying to make amends.

He’s not particularly paying attention to the paper until he notices the logo in the corner. This particular camp, _Porta Vida_ , hadn’t been like the others. It had been investigated long before the others, when people started noticing that Alphas who’d sent their Omegas on one of its training ‘events’ kept dying of nasty accidents.

It had been the front of an extreme Omega Rights group – really, they were terrorists – and had run for over fifty years by the time it shut down in 1996. Dean had always secretly thought that they’d been doing the right thing, punishing the Alphas who treated them like slaves, even if they’d been somewhat over the top about it, but the rest of society had seemed to disagree, shocked that Omegas could be violent and dangerous instead of sweet and submissive the way they’re supposed to be. At eighteen, Dean knew perfectly well how violent an Omega could be.

Sam snaps him out of his little detour down memory lane when he shuffles his own batch of papers.

                “Nothing new here,” he says. Dean’s still staring at the paper in his hands. “Dean? What’s wrong?”

                “Laura might have been a terrorist.” Dean says it gravely, but inside he’s torn, he and Sam don’t punish the human guilty, that’s the job of regular law enforcement (even if they tend to do a monumentally crappy job) but he wishes Laura could have gotten her revenge while Geoffery Burnham was still alive, maybe she could even have gone on to a normal life, after all, most of the Omegas who’d been through Porta Vida got very lenient sentences, the thinking being that they’d been brainwashed and clearly weren’t capable of thinking for themselves.

                “What do you mean?” Sam sounds totally confused, and still looks mystified as Dean hands him the paper.

                “Porta Vida. The Omega training facility that turned out to be a cover for a terrorist group. Remember? It was a huge scandal.” It had been all Dean thought about for months after it happened, there’s no way Sam doesn’t remember.

                “I don’t remember,” Sam says, shaking his head and handing Dean the paper back.

                “Well, you were twelve,” Dean concedes, but he’s met Omegas years younger than Sam who know everything about it. Every Omega he’s ever met knows about it, because it’s an important part of their history. Alphas see it as one tiny mistake, a case of a few Omegas just getting out of line, ultimately completely irrelevant. He shakes the thoughts away – Sam isn’t like other Alphas, but he isn’t an Omega either. All that matters is that Sam loves him. He’s never been this insecure before, it’s very irritating. “Probably not important anyway,” he continues. “Terrorism isn’t exactly our thing.”

                “It could be,” says Sam, and Dean’s heart sinks when he realises Sam is wearing his most serious face of all. “Laura was psychic, wasn’t she?”

                “What?” Dean grapples around in his mind for what on earth Sam could be talking about, until he remembers what Laura’s Beta friend told them – a throwaway comment that he didn’t really pay any attention to, but Sam did.

                “I read something once about psychics being used by all sorts of different organisations, especially in the eighties. I doubt it’s still going on but we wouldn’t be doing our jobs if we didn’t investigate.”

                “ _Psychic terrorism?_ ”  He sounds hysterical, but tells himself that’s totally because he’s annoyed that the hunt is over, and has nothing to do with wanting to enjoy Sam’s private reaction to his treatment-smooth, guaranteed-irresistible skin.

                “C’mon,” says Sam, who looks as disappointed as he feels, but with a slight gleam in his eye which Dean knows can only mean one thing. “Time to do some research.”

 

\--

 

Lots of mixed emotions for poor Dean! The next update should be on Saturday, so stay tuned!

 

Comments welcome and appreciated, just like always!


	13. Day Nine (Part One)

When Dean’s in a good mood, research can actually be quite fun – he doesn’t think he’ll ever let Sam know, partially because it’ll ruin his cred, and also because Sam _loves_ research, it’s his thing and Dean doesn’t want to take that away – but he certainly isn’t having fun right now. The library is dark and stuffy, totally at odds with the bright sunshine and cool summer breeze outside, and Dean would quite like to be lying by the pool. Also, the more they read up on Omega Terrorism, the more Sam keeps shooting him apologetic looks, and it’s starting to get under his skin.

                “Can we just photocopy all this shit and go outside?” He’s sounding a bit whiney, and he bites his lip to try to keep from apologising for it. “Sorry.” _Damn it_. Sam leans over and puts his hand on the back of Dean’s neck, stroking gently. It feels good, same as whenever Sam touches him. He’s more aware of the collar now, after reading pages and pages of manifestos ranting about how awful they are, and it’s odd to feel it rubbing against the back of his neck in time with Sam’s thumb. It doesn't feel constricting, the way the manifestos insist, and the way he always believed it would. He shrugs Sam off, but grabs his hand as he pulls away and entwines their fingers together.

                “I don’t like this either,” says Sam quietly. “I never really knew about all this. Even in college, I thought I was really good, y’know?” He sighs. “I signed all those ‘support Omega Rights’ petitions, but it was never because I knew about all of this.” He stops and meets Dean’s gaze. “I’m pretty sure it was only because of you. Otherwise I might not’ve even cared.”

                “It’s ok,” says Dean, even though he feels a little like it’s not.

                “It’s not,” says Sam, and Dean starts to protest but Sam stops him with a glance. “And I’m not gonna pretend otherwise, but I’m gonna try.” He gestures vaguely at Laura’s picture, faded and forgotten. “Stuff like this can’t happen. And I’m not talking about ghosts. The ghost’s gone. This is something more.”

                “No one’s dying,” Dean gently reminds him.

                “It’s not always that dramatic,” says Sam. “Sometimes getting justice is important. Sometimes you have to find out the truth, even if no one else cares. Maybe especially then.”

                “Yeah,” says Dean, watching dust dance in a sliver of sunlight, Sam’s earnest expression in his peripheral vision. “Yeah, I know.”

 

 

Porta Vida has long been disbanded – officially at least. Their former, alleged, leader, an Omega woman named Clara Moor, now lives in San Francisco with her Alpha and their three children. She’s their first port of call.

Her house is nothing like Laura’s mother’s house. There, Dean had had some illusions that she might be a normal, reasonable person. Clara Moor’s house is like something out of a fifties sitcom, hand-stitched ‘home sweet home’ decorations on the wall included.

                “I feel violated,” hisses Dean under his breath as Clara skips off to get them a jug of her ‘famous hand-made apple juice – nothing else’ll ever taste as good!’. Sam nods. It’s funny, because a part of Dean, the same part which still feels a little bit angry at Sam for running off to college, which felt jealous when he talked to nice, normal Beta girls before he even realised there was a sexual element to that jealousy, always thinks that Sam secretly wants a life like this, picture-perfect and traditional. He forgets that Sam gets just as disturbed by normal people as he does, and realising that is really quite comforting.

                “It’ll be over before you know it,” Sam mutters, squeezing Dean’s hand briefly.

                “What’s our cover story again?” He feels a little panicky, even with Sam’s comforting presence; places like this always feel gross and wrong. Too bright and shiny, not real enough.

                “Cold cases. Again.” It’s a safe option, and their most reliable in this situation, but Dean’s heart jolts a little when he realises he’s still wearing his collar. His hand flutters up towards it, unbidden, and Sam shakes his head.

                “Don’t take it off. She’s seen it already, and besides, you smell like an Omega. It’s not like they’re not _allowed_ to work for Law Enforcement, it’s just… unusual.” That’s a bit of a slap in the face, the reminder that he could never have had a job he wanted (ok, so he never wanted to be a cop, but firefighter or mechanic wouldn’t exactly be ‘conventional’ Omega careers either).

Clara comes back in, glass jug full of apple juice complete with ice cubes and apple slices that Dean’s pretty sure are all cut to the exact same thickness.

                “So what can I help you with, officers?” She beams. Her smile is genuine, and kind, and Dean softens to her a little (although that might be something to do with the juice – it’s delicious, and he suspects it might have something like crack in it).

Sam takes a picture of Laura – small and faded, it looks like something the police would have on file – out of his suit pocket and pushes it towards her.

                “Does this girl look familiar to you?” Clara’s face pales a little as comprehension spreads over her features. Dean thinks she might lie.

                “Yes.” It’s a short, sharp answer, at odds with the musical, lilting voice she’s been using. She meets Sam’s pleading eyes and sighs. “I know what this is about. It was a long time ago.”

                “We know,” says Sam, cautiously. It would be bad to have her clam up at this point; she’s pretty much their only chance of finding out the truth.

                “So I presume you know all about my, erm, colourful past?” She doesn’t wait for either of them to respond, just jumps right in. “She came to the camp – can’t have been more than fifteen. Beautiful and angry, she was, like a fire. Laura?” They nod, but she isn’t really looking. “Her parents wanted her mated off, didn’t really care who to, but someone rich and powerful. Her Alpha, Burnham, we knew about him. No solid evidence, just whispers, but everyone knew he was a murderer. Laura was very headstrong, she was too young, really, to handle it, but he wouldn’t have gone for an older Omega, so we got her in there.” She takes a deep breath. “We never got any correspondence from her, until I got a letter saying she was dead. He killed her, didn’t he?” It takes Dean a moment to realise it’s him she’s addressing.

                “That’s what we – yes . Yes he did.” She’s quiet for a long time, no sound but the three of them breathing and the gentle noise of the wind chimes hanging on the porch.

                “If you already know that, why come talk to me?”

                “Because there were things, about Laura that we… some unexplainable phenomena…” he’s reaching for words that sound professional, but not doing a very good job of it. Clara looks unimpressed.

                “Jesus, if you’re talking about the psychic stuff, just ask.” Sam makes a choked-off noise of surprise next to him, and Dean laughs a bit in his own shock. Clara smiles tightly at both of them. “You are talking about the psychic stuff, I presume?” Dean nods, embracing the image of him and Sam as clueless normals who don’t really want to accept that the world isn’t as mundane as they wish it was. “There are some people who have special powers, and I do realise that sounds like bullshit, and I don’t really care whether or not you believe me.”

“So tell us about it,” says Sam. “We’ll listen, and we won’t laugh, I swear.”

“We found out by accident, there was an Omega boy who was pyrokinetic – literally snapped his fingers and a house could go up in flames. It was terrifying. He killed five Alphas using that, and no one found out. I’m not going to tell you his name.” Sam acknowledges that with a nod and she keeps talking. “We never had enough of them to make any sort of program, but there were a few others over the years. Laura, for example, had the power of illusion. She could make people see what they were most afraid of, but it didn’t work most of the time. I have no idea if she ever managed to use it on Burnham, maybe if she had she’d still be alive. Alive and living a good life, like mine.” Dean raises an eyebrow involuntarily at that.

                “You’re happy?” It just slips out by accident, and he bites his lip after, regretful. Clara doesn’t look insulted though.

                “I know it’s difficult to believe,” she says, “but I am. I never expected to fall in love with an Alpha, to enjoy cooking and sewing and making a home. To have children who I love more than I’ve ever loved anything in my life.” She cocks her head at him. “You’re collared,” she says, “and aren’t you happy?” Sam inhales next to him, and it’s like he’s sucked the air right out of Dean’s lungs.

                “I’m happy,” says Dean quietly, and he wishes it didn’t sound like a lie. It isn’t a lie, he loves Sam, wants to be his, he just wishes it could feel like it was truly his choice, but he doesn’t know how to put it into words. Clara nods at him as though she understands.

                “Not all Omegas suit being owned. And that doesn’t make them bad, or broken,” she says. “And if you do, that doesn’t make you bad or broken either – it doesn’t make you weak. Freedom is about choice, being able to do what makes us happy without anyone forcing us into it, even with the best intentions.” She looks down briefly, as though embarrasses. “We shouldn’t hurt people to get it, and we shouldn’t force what we think freedom is on people who don’t agree. I’ve learned my lesson about that.” There’s silence again, and Dean’s surprised when Sam’s the one who breaks it.

                “Sometimes you have to cause some pain to get what you want. I’m not saying what you did was right, but you were right to be angry. Everyone should have been angry.”

                “They were angry when they found out what we were doing,” says Clara, her eyes misting with nostalgia, and maybe tears. “My God, were they angry.”

 

 

Outside Clara’s house, the sun hits Dean’s face and it’s hot unbearably hot. His eyes are watering from it. No, that’s not right, he’s crying again.

                “I’m sorry,” says Sam, for what feels like the hundredth time, and Dean laughs shakily.

                “Your biggest fear is hurting me,” he says.

                “What? I mean, that’s true, but that was a bit of a segue…” Sam looks a bit flustered and Dean presses his hand against Sam’s heart, feeling the warmth of his body and the steady pump of his pulse. He’s solid and real and alive and Dean feels so overwhelmingly grateful for all of those things that he cries harder, tucking his face into Sam’s neck.

                “Laura, when she appeared in our room, you said she looked like me. Like you’d beaten the crap out of me.” Sam just nods, his chin brushing the top of Dean’s head. “I know you’d never hurt me, you have to know that.”

                “But are you happy?” Sam’s voice is soft, as though he’s afraid of the answer, and instead of waiting for Dean to give him one, he continues. “I mean, I know you’re uncomfortable with the traditional idea of an Alpha/Omega relationship…”

                “I’m not,” says Dean, “Not uncomfortable, I mean. I just don’t know what to do with the fact that I’m… not uncomfortable.”

                “Ok,” says Sam, petting Dean’s hair gently. “That’s good. I can deal with that.”

Dean thinks he can feel him smiling, at least a little.

 

\--

 

Longer between updates than I expected, sorry!

Comments are as welcome and encouraged as ever!


	14. Day Nine (Part Two)

They’re still sitting in the sunshine outside Clara Moor’s house ten minutes later, in comfortable silence broken occasionally by the wind chimes. Sam keeps his hand on the back of Dean’s neck, a gentle, familiar weight. Dean feels a little like he should say something – Sam’s expression is a little sad and distant – but finds himself at a complete loss for words.

They’re interrupted by the rattle and swing of Clara’s door opening.

                “You guys ok over there?” Dean turns with a little effort – his back’s kinda stiff from sitting leaning against the Impala. She trots over, clutching a yellowing slip of paper. “This might be a long shot,” she said, “but I found a list of the other psychics we had at the camp. I don’t know if any of them are… still active, or even alive, and I don’t even know what you’re looking for, really.” She gives both of them an assessing look. “But you’re good people, I can tell. You’re trying to do the right thing.” She passes the paper to Dean, who takes it with a nod and a small mutter of thanks. Sam gives her a much wider smile and a full blown ‘thanks so much for your time, ma’am’, before he starts herding Dean into the car.

Before they can get there, Clara grabs Dean’s wrist.

                “I just want you to know that I think this is great – you, being able to do this. It’s all I wanted, you know. Omegas to be able to do what they want, collared or not collared. You’re an inspiration.” Dean’s never been called anything remotely like that before. It feels nice, even if it makes him uncomfortable and twitchy.

                “Th-thankyou,” he manages, trying for a smile and knowing it’s coming out bewildered and a little crooked. She gives him a final, glowing smile, and turns back to the house.

                “Good luck!” She waves from the porch while they drive away, Dean with his eyes glued to her until the Impala rounds a corner and she’s out of sight, the paper clutched in his hand.

 

 

                “So are we actually going to investigate this?” Dean waves the paper at Sam, who flinches out of the way before one of its corners takes out an eye. “Because I’m not sure what we’re trying to do either. As far as we know, there are no more ghosts.” Sam sighs long-sufferingly.

                “We’re not trying to do anything. This is…” he bites his lip. “I kind of thought I was doing this for you.” Dean has absolutely no idea what he’s talking about, and gestures for him to continue. “You need closure on this. It’s personal for you.”

                “I don’t need closure,” Dean says with a snort, “we did our job here, and like I said before terrorism isn’t our thing.” Sam opens his mouth to protest. “Psychic terrorism included! From what Clara said, it really doesn’t sound like they had much of a plan there.” It comes out strangely bitter, and Dean realises he’s disappointed. Disappointed that Porta Vida hadn’t achieved anything, that Clara Moor had been so soft and non-threatening and not angry at all. And he’s upset with himself for thinking like this. He feels like he’s hurting Sam, even without meaning to, by being so angry with the world.

Sam rests his hand on Dean’s thigh, just above his knee.

                “We’re not looking into this because we’re worried they might be trying to hurt people. You get that, right?” Dean blinks up at him in confusion. There doesn’t seem to be any other reason to be investigating a long-defunct terrorist group, than checking it wasn’t going to do any further damage. “That’s over – it’s gone. We’re trying to see if these people are alright. That they’re not being… forced into using their powers or anything. For any reason.” Dean nods slowly, he thinks he understands now.

                “They’re psychics,” he says slowly. “Like you. I get it.” Sam sighs and rubs at the bridge of his nose.

                “Yeah, sure. It’s me who identifies with them.” He sounds exasperated, like he has no clue what Dean means. Dean shoves his hand away.

                “What the fuck is that supposed to mean? You’re psychic, they’re psychic, logical conclusion.” Anger, unjustified and unbidden, bubbles up inside him. “I wasn’t suggesting you were like an Omega, if _that’s_ what you’re thinking.”

                “What? No! That’s not even…” Sam doesn’t look angry at all, and Dean kinda wishes he would. He’s not sure why, but he’s spoiling for a fight. “I’m not saying that you identify with these kids just because you’re an Omega!”

                “Neither am I!” yells Dean hysterically. He tries to scramble away but Sam grabs both his wrists.

                “Look dean, I’m trying to be understanding about you blowing so hot and cold,” (it’s a mark of how annoyed dean is right now that he doesn’t snigger a little at that) “and I get that this is all new and weird for you. I've said that before. But, dude, it’s getting really hard to keep up. One second you’re telling me you might wanna settle down with me and that you really, genuinely want to be mine, and that you're _happy_ , and the next you’re pissed at me just because I’m an Alpha, basically. And I don’t know if you even realise you’re doing it!”

Dean deflates at that, and at the earnest, stricken look on Sam’s face. It’s true what Sam’s saying, and it’s true that Dean isn’t being fair to him. Guilt hits him like a stab in the guts, tight and painful.

                “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

                “I don’t want you to be sorry,” Sam says sadly, “I want you to tell me what you’re thinking. I want you to let yourself feel angry and upset.” Dean nods, wiping away tears he hadn’t realised were there.

                “I’m angry,” he says. “I’m angry ‘cause the world fucking sucks and there’s nothing I can do about it.” He pauses. “I mean, we fight monsters and ghosts and demons and every fucked up supernatural beastie on the planet, and we do it well, but we can’t do anything about – about how people _like me_ are treated.” He takes a deep, shuddering breath and continues. “I’m angry because everyone looks at me and thinks I’m useless and pathetic because of what I am, and no matter how many people I save nothing will change that. I’m angry because people look at you and think you’re better than me. And that’s ok, because you are, and I love you so much, but…” he trails off, words lost in his now violent sobbing. Sam shushes him, pulling him into a tight hug. “And I’m upset,” says Dean, thick and halting, “because there’s part of me that wants to just say ‘fuck it’ and be a good Omega, I want to be yours and it feels like I’m failing. Because it _does_ make me happy and I feel like it shouldn't. It feels like I’m abandoning everything I thought was important, and part of me just doesn’t care – part of me wants it so much that it hurts, it really hurts.”

With that, he buries his face in Sam’s shoulder, and cries until he physically can't do it anymore.

 

\--

 

I'm sorry this chapter is so short and boring! I've been pretty ill this week so I haven't been up to much but I thought I'd do a short chapter now as the next update won't be until mid next week, probably. Sorry again :(

Next chapter I can promise sexytimes and a serious reduction in Dean's mood swings, if it's any consolation?


	15. Day Ten

 

Dean’s woken, slowly, by someone running their fingers through his hair. He wriggles a little and it stops. He grumbles sleepily and the hand’s back in his hair, accompanied by a soft huff of laughter he recognises as Sam. He blinks up at his brother, eyesight still a little blurred and foggy from sleep. When Sam’s face swims into clarity he’s looking down at Dean with a fond, adoring expression.

                “Wh’time’s it?” He hopes it’s early. Getting out of bed seems like an impossible task right now.

                “A little after six,” says Sam. “We’ve got a while before breakfast. You can go back to sleep.”

                “Nuh-uh,” says Dean, “’m awake now.” That being said, he has no intention of being any more awake than he is now, so he snuggles back under the covers and pulls Sam’s hand against his head so Sam can keep petting him. Sam laughs again.

                “How come you’re in such a good mood this morning?”

                “Sleep’s the great… uh… reason-maker. Thing that makes you reasonable. Whatever. Stop asking questions and stroke my hair again. Bitch.”

                “Oh, you like it do you?”

                “Yeah, it feels damn good. You’ll do this for me when we leave here, right?”

                “Of course,” Sam sounds a little sad. “I’m not doing this for you at all, I hope you realise. It’s just ‘cause you look adorable and I _really_ appreciate the conditioner they have here.”

                “I got nothing on your silky locks, princess.”

“Anything you say,” says Sam affectionately. Dean makes a sound which sounds alarmingly close to a purr as Sam combs his fingers through Dean’s hair again. Now that he’s more awake, he can feel Sam’s body pressed up close behind him. Sam’s hard, Dean can feel the solid heat of his erection pressed up against his ass.

“Were you humping me while I was sleeping?” He wiggles his ass against Sam’s groin a little for emphasis. “You are one kinky weirdo, Sammy.”

“I wasn’t! Jesus, Dean. I am capable of controlling myself.” He pauses while Dean laughs at him, light and easy to show he doesn’t mind. “Sorry,” says Sam, sounding genuinely apologetic despite the fact they both know he hasn’t done anything, but he’s still smiling.

“Don’t be sorry,” says Dean. “It’s nice that you think I’m so hot.” He turns around to face Sam and nuzzles his cheek. “Anyway, I’m the one who should be sorry. I was a mess last night. Did you carry me to bed?”

“Yeah,” says Sam as Dean tangles their legs together, “you were pretty out of it.”

“Cried myself  into unconsciousness. Great. Don’t tell anyone.”

“I’ll take it to my grave.”

“’ppreciate it.”

“So… you wanna?” Sam looks hesitant, biting his lip like he’s fifteen and Dean’s his high school girlfriend. Dean licks his lips as though contemplating.

“Wanna what? Bake a cake? Go square-dancing? Save the whales?” He grins and Sam shoves him playfully.

“Never mind, asshole. Let me up.”

“Nuh-uh. No way are you jerking off in the bathroom. Take your pants off.”

 

 

Less than thirty seconds later, Dean’s straddling Sam’s hips and making a valiant attempt at precisely mapping out Sam’s mouth with his tongue, while Sam grabs at his ass and periodically tearing his mouth away so that one of them can remove another item of clothing. They’re breathless by the time both of them are naked.

                “Are you sure about this?” Sam’s panting and sweaty, hands roaming all over Dean’s body. Dean presses a soft kiss against his lips.

                “Dude, calm down. I was upset yesterday. I’m not upset anymore. Stop talking.” Dean kisses him harder, just to reinforce that command. Sam groans a little into the kiss as Dean grinds against him, slippery with sweat and slick. “Want you inside me,” Dean whispers before tugging on Sam’s earlobe with his teeth, not roughly but enough that Sam digs his fingers harder into Dean’s hips. While Sam mauls his neck, Dean arches back and shoves two fingers inside himself, working himself open as fast as he can.

                “Let me,” says Sam, pulling away Dean’s hand and replacing it with his own. Dean gasps at the change – Sam’s fingers are so much longer and thicker than his – but he gets used to it quickly and is soon fucking himself on his brother’s fingers.

                “G’na come like this,” he says, as Sam brushes his prostate again, almost perfect but not quite. Sam grins and lines himself up, pushing his cock in. it’s getting easier this time, and Dean’s able to sink down on the first push, bouncing up again almost immediately and wrapping his arms around Sam’s neck so they can kiss furiously. He has to pull away a bit as he comes, gasping when he feels his insides clench around Sam’s swelling knot, the wet heat in his belly where Sam’s filling him up.

                “I keep thinking it can’t be as good as I remember,” says Sam, sounding a little like he did the first time Dean let him join the older kids smoking weed – lax, slurred, and a little out of it, like he doesn’t have any control over his mouth. “But it is.”

Dean’s a little too strung-out to reply, so his agreement is silent, but definitely heartfelt.

 

 

They’ve missed breakfast, and as the post-sex haze of bliss wears off, Dean’s stomach growls loudly. Sam pats it a little.

                “Hungry? We can get room service.”

                “I’m seriously surprised that we’re managing on only one credit card. Why don’t we always do this?”

                “Er…” Sam looks a little embarrassed, blushing and fiddling with his hair. “I may have used some cash as well.” Dean squints suspiciously at him. “I had some savings I still hadn’t used, and when I heard about the deaths, I thought…”

                “That you’d take me on a fancy-ass holiday and _seduce_ me while pretending it was all for the greater good? You sneaky bastard!” Dean’s a little surprised by how endearing he finds it.

                “No! Well, yes, ok, a little. I honestly didn’t know for sure that you… felt the same. I had my suspicions, but nothing solid.”

                “So… you thought it’d be a good opportunity to see me in a collar and manhandle me around?” If someone had suggested to Dean, even just a few weeks ago, that his younger brother would attempt anything like that, Dean would probably have laughed in their face. After punching their lights out. Now though, he’s actually a little turned on. Sam isn’t denying it, but he looks a little guilty. “That’s very flattering,” says Dean, with only about 50% mockery.

 

 

Dean pokes his head out of the room for half a second, just to deposit of another ruined set of bed linen, and almost smashes into Felicity.

                “Was it at all helpful?”

                “Uh…?”

                “The papers I gave you?” She doesn’t look at all insulted that he doesn’t remember, still bouncing around.

                “Oh yeah,” says Dean. “They were helpful, actually.” There’s a slightly awkward silence – Dean isn’t sure if she wants to discuss it. She must have read them, and she’s old enough to know about Porta Vida. She saves him the trouble by smiling brightly and punching him on the arm.

                “Happy to help! So it’s totally over? Totally and completely? I’m not going to be fighting any ghosts?” Dean laughs a little, he’s not sure he’s ever met anyone so enthusiastic – or perhaps she’s just naïve.  Before he can answer, she looks down at the bundle of dirty laundry he’s clinging to like a shield, cocking an eyebrow.

                “Someone had a _very_ good morning.” Dean feels a little violated, already sensing the blush creeping up his neck and threatening to crawl all the way to his ears. Felicity obviously sees it too because she giggles and pinches his cheek. It’s friendly, not the same way Alphas do it. Most Alphas. He knows, deep down, that he’ll always be bothered by the way Alphas treat him, that he’ll never truly get over the anger he feels. Still, right now he finds himself not caring all that much. Maybe it’s because he knows that Sam truly loves him, and won’t ever treat him as inferior, or maybe it’s just that getting fantastically laid is mellowing him out. He doesn’t mind either way, neither of those things is going to stop, no matter how many moments of insecurity he might have.

                “Well, you’re useless to me right now,” says Felicity, cutting through his epiphany, “too fucked-out to even have a conversation. I should be the same. See you later, Dean!”

And she’s off, skipping down the corridor without another word.

 

 

                “So what _are_ we going to do about the other psychic Omegas?” It’s the first time Sam’s brought it up today, and Dean sighs a little. He doesn’t really want to think about it.

                “Honestly? I think we should leave it alone.”

                “Me too.”

                “Really?” Dean blinks up at Sam, a little shocked.

                “Yeah,” says Sam, and he does sound very certain. “It was a long time ago, everyone in Porta Vida did their time. It’s over. Not our kind of thing at all. None of our business.” Dean nods. They can’t fix things that have already happened, after all. Sometimes they have to let something go, and this is one of those times. If something comes of it in the future… well, then they can deal with it then.

                “I think you’re right. There is something I want to do, though.”

                “What’s that?” Sam’s smiling softly at him, though the smile falters a little when Dean says what he’s been thinking all this time, voice full of determination.

                “I want to pay Laura’s mother another visit.”

 

\--

 

Sorry for the wait! I'm much better now, so hopefully the next chapter will come quicker (although bear with me, it's my cousin's wedding this weekend and I have no idea what I'll be like in the aftermath, haha).

Comments welcome and appreciated as always!


	16. Day Eleven

 

Laura’s mother seems less happy to see him this time around. It’s probably the expression on his face, which he’s willing to bet suggests that he’s here to kill her, or at the very least destroy all of her potted plants.

                “Hello,” he says, and tries a smile. It doesn’t seem to be working. He’s tempted to run back to the car where Sam is waiting, and forget about doing this, but despite everything he’s discovered about himself in the last week and a half, he’s still Dean Winchester, destroyer of things that go bump in the night, and if he can’t handle talking to a dead girl’s bitch of a mother, he’ll never be able to show his face again.

                “Hello,” she says, hesitantly. They both stand awkwardly in the porch for a few minutes before she remembers to pretend she has manners, and grudgingly invites him in.

                “I’m not staying long,” he says. “I just wanted to talk to you. About Laura.” She looks at him shrewdly.

                “Where’s your Alpha? Shouldn’t he be here with y-“

                “He’s outside. He wanted me to come in by myself. Because that’s what I wanted.” Dean’s hands are shaking, he can’t quite believe how scared he is, here, where there presumably is no physical threat to him. He’s almost died so many times, but the knowledge of what’s coming now – and all it’s going to be is disapproval, assurance that he’s wrong and a freak and not doing what’s good for him, good for society, _the way things are meant to be_. He takes a deep breath and plunges on before she can say anything else. “Do you know how Laura died?”

                “It was an accident.” The words come out like acid – angry enough to spur Dean’s own anger on.

                “It wasn’t an accident. She was murdered.” Laura’s mother scoffs at that, but her eyes are a little afraid. “Did you ever suspect that? Did you know she was being abused? Did you ever bother to learn anything about your daughter?” He isn’t shouting – he’s actually crying a little now, just enough to make his voice crack on the last word. Laura’s mother sighs, but stays quiet. “Did you realise she never stopped hating who she was because of you?”

                “You’ve been listening to those extremists, haven’t you?” She seems to have recovered a little now she’s angry.

“Laura did,” Dean snaps back at her, “you drove her to that. And now she’s dead.”

“How dare you! This is my house, and you’re coming in, _accusing_ me… someone should talk to your Alpha.”

“Go ahead!” Dean’s heart is beating an erratic drumbeat against his ribs. “He’s outside right now.” He’s called her bluff, he knows. She has no desire to deal with Dean’s Alpha – especially one as tall and well-built as Sam (which he’s very proud of, although now really isn’t the time for it – it’s possible he’s a little hysterical right now, but he’s doing a good job of keeping it locked down tight). Knowing he probably doesn’t have much time to get his point across, he talks as quickly and succinctly as he can, completely abandoning all pretence of courtesy and professionalism. “Look lady, I realise you’re probably not _intentionally_ being a terrible person, but at the end of the day, what you put Laura through is what got her killed. You made her bitter enough that she felt the need to join a fuckin’ _terrorist organisation_ just so she could get out. It didn’t work and she was murdered by the guy you thought was perfect – and you only thought he was perfect ‘cause he was rich, and ‘cause he beat her down until she was what you thought she ought to be.”

“I was trying to do what was best for her. She was my daughter. I _loved_ her.”

“If you loved her you would have let her be who she wanted to be!”

“Omegas don’t know what they want!”

He's heard that line so many times that it doesn't even phase him. He almost finds it calming, this woman's total faith in his lack of agency, his inability to understand his own mind. He knows how wrong she is, and somehow it makes him feel good - fantastic, even - knowing how wrong she is.

                “Everyone wants to be free.” He cringes a little after he says it, mostly because of the smug look Laura’s mother gives him – him and the collar still snug around his neck. “Free to make their own decisions. A collar doesn’t change that.” With that, he turns around and leaves, giving her one last look. She looks neither triumphant nor defeated, but really, there’s nothing more he can do. It doesn’t make any difference to Laura now, anyway, she still died alone and bitter. Perhaps he should have told Laura’s mother that her daughter hated her, but he’s honestly not sure if that’s true. Laura’s mother never hated her daughter, for all her terrible treatment of her. Love doesn’t have much to do, in the end, with how people treat you. You can’t help who you love, be it a parent who mistreats and belittles you, or a brother who’d die and kill for you.

 

 

Sam smiles at Dean as he approaches, looking a little sad, even when Dean gives him a small smile and swings himself into the passenger seat.

                “You talked to her?”

                “Yeah,” says Dean. “She didn’t exactly change her mind. But it felt good to get it out there, y’know?”

                “Yeah. I know.”

“If we can’t do anything about those other psychic Omegas, I just… I had to do something. D’you think it was harsh?” Sam’s shaking his head before Dean’s even finished his sentence.

“No way. And unless you told her she was the biggest bitch in the world and smashed all her crockery, you were probably being too nice.” They sit in comfortable silence, heat across Dean’s face where the sun streaks through the car window, listening to the birds and the sounds of distant traffic. Dean leans over into Sam’s space and kisses him. It’s not a great angle, but Sam tastes sweet and he’s making happy noises, and it’s nice. Safe. “What was that for?” says Sam when Dean finally pulls away, one hand still at the back of Sam’s neck, stroking the ends of his hair.

                “For being you,” says Dean.

                “Aw, you sap.” Sam bites his lip after he says it, nervous, but Dean doesn’t mind. He just kisses him again until Sam pulls away and says, “you know, if you pissed Laura’s mom off, she’ll probably call the cops if we carry on making out in front of her house like this.”

                “I guess you’re right. Back to the resort?”

                “Yeah. You should get another spa treatment. This time we’ll be able to make the most of it.”

                “Fuck you, my skin is still soft as hell.”

The Impala growls into life and they speed away. Dean leans back into his seat and touches the collar around his neck, watching Sam’s easy smile as he drives.

 

\--

 

Sorry for the delay - and that it's only a short update! This fic's nearly finished - only one more chapter to go, which should be up early next week if not before.

 

Comments welcome as always!

 


	17. End

The last few days of the trip pass incredibly quickly (too quickly really, but Dean doesn’t like to admit that, even if Sam gives him knowing looks each time he complains about how he’d rather be on the road, especially if he says it while lounging by the pool or tangled up in their ridiculously soft bedsheets). Before they leave though, there’s one thing both of them are determined to do.

 

The pool and its surrounding foliage are just as they was last time, quiet and serene, and now that there’s no need to worry about ghosts, Dean can actually appreciate the ambience. The night is warm, just a little humid, the air pleasant against his skin as he peels off his shirt and steps out of his jeans, hearing Sam doing the same behind him. He closes his eyes and breathes in, smell of the flowers mingling a little with chlorine. It’s all very peaceful, which is probably why Sam chooses that moment to tackle him into the pool.

                “What the fuck?” Dean manages between splutters. Sam crouches at the edge, hair dripping, laughing at him. His skin glows in the moonlight, and Dean thinks he’s never seen anyone so beautiful. He quickly schools his no-doubt embarrassingly lovestruck expression into something a little more deadly, and seizes Sam’s wrists to drag him, still laughing, into the pool.

They grapple together in the water for a bit, eventually splashing over towards the shallow end. Dean stands on his tiptoes, managing to look Sam straight in the eye for once (of course that’s only because Sam has both feet flat on the floor, but it’s still a pleasant switch-up). They both stare at each other, blinking away chlorine, for a few moments, before Sam tackles Dean, pulling both of them underwater just as he pulls Dean in for a kiss.

Kissing underwater isn’t exactly like in the movies – it’s very wet, tastes a little funny, and the lack of oxygen becomes an issue quite quickly. Still, it’s nice in a slightly surreal way. They’re both gasping for air when they break the surface, Dean somehow swept up into Sam’s arms. Sam’s got one huge arm braced around Dean’s back, his other hand delving between his ass cheeks.

                “F-fuck,” Dean stammers, his hands slipping along Sam’s shoulders when he’s breached.

                “I wanna…” says Sam, “I wanna try something, ok?” Dean doesn’t think about it, frankly he’d probably agree to putting on a penguin outfit and riding around on a tricycle singing the Macarena if Sam asked him in that deep, smoky voice he uses when he’s turned on, so he lets Sam manhandle him so he’s half-in the pool, ass-up over the edge, Sam’s hands gripping his ass, kneading a little.

                “What’re you-“ he starts, but he’s cut off by Sam licking a wet stripe over his hole. This isn’t actually something he’s ever done before – Alphas tend to just want to stick their dick in something as fast as possible, and all the Betas and Omegas he’s been with haven’t really been interested in this part of his body. It’s nothing like he could have expected, feels like Sam’s sending white-hot, shivering sparks up his spine.

He’s shaking by the time Sam pulls off, a fist pressed against his mouth to keep him from doing something really embarrassing, like wailing or sobbing or screaming Sam’s name. he twists around (it’s an awkward angle but he doesn’t care) and kisses Sam, licks the taste of himself out of Sam’s mouth.

                “I’ve never done that before,” he says, voice wrecked.

                “Well, I’m glad then,” says Sam. He’s blushing, which is ridiculous considering what he was doing to Dean’s ass less than ten seconds ago, but it’s also the cutest thing ever.

                “Still,” says Dean, “I came out to this pool in the middle of the night to get fucked stupid in the closest thing to zero-gravity we can get while we’re still on earth. So…?”

 

 

Felicity and Amanda are both standing by the front entrance. They’re leaving today too, the only other couple apart from him and Sam (and it’s still pretty weird to think they’re a couple now, but it’s starting to feel comfortable and familiar – and perhaps that’s even weirder) to have managed to stay the whole two weeks and not bailed after Thomas’ death. Dean feels weirdly attached to both of them, and grabs Sam’s arm so they can go say goodbye.

                “You should come and visit us sometime,” says Felicity, after they’ve exchanged all the usual farewell niceties, smiling hopefully at them. Dean knows that probably won’t happen, but it’s a nice thing for her to say, so he smiles and gives her his number. If she ever has a monster problem, it might save her life, and she’s been nice to him, shown him a different perspective.

He hugs her goodbye – and is surprised when Amanda gives him a hug too. He feels a little guilty for not making more of an effort to get to know her. The two of them tow their luggage away, bickering good-naturedly about whether to wait until getting home to have dinner or stopping somewhere on the road.

Sam and Dean wave them off, Sam’s arm slung casually over Dean’s shoulders, before tugging their own bags to the Impala. It’s been a long two weeks, and Dean’s glad to be getting back on the road, even if he’s a little sad to be leaving the comfort of the resort behind.

 

 

                “So what are you gonna do about the suppressants?” Dean hesitates for a moment, but Sam doesn’t sound hopeful, or worried. Just curious.

                “I think I’m gonna stop taking them.” He bites his lip and looks up at Sam, who’s nodding thoughtfully. “Unless… you think I should keep taking them?”

                “I think it’s your choice,” says Sam, “if you want to stop, you stop.”

                “It might make it difficult though,” says Dean “what if I go into heat on a case?” He’s doubting himself again, worrying at his lower lip with his teeth. Sam reaches out and strokes his cheek.

                “We’ll do some research, see what your options are. You know you can change your mind later, right?” Dean snorts a little, but nods.

                “I’d only do this for you,” he says, and he’s a little worried about how that sounded, especially when Sam gives him a quizzical look. “I mean, I’m doing this because it’s what I want, but if you weren’t my Alpha… there’s no one else who would’ve made me feel like being an Omega might not be terrible.” He winces, running a hand over his face. “I’m saying this all wrong. What I’m trying to say is-“

“I know,” says Sam, “and me too.”

I’m not ready for anything like… settling down. Or kids.” This was what he was worried about telling Sam, he realises. Sam wants a normal life, picket fence and 2.5 beautiful, smiling children. Can they ever have that?

                “That’s ok,” says Sam, and it really sounds like he means it. And like he said, any decision they make now isn’t forever. Sam strokes his fingers along Dean’s jaw to his neck, along and under the collar. “What about this?” His smile is a little different now, his eyes gleaming dark and dangerous, and Dean blushes a little under the heat of his gaze.

                “I wanna keep it.”

                “Good choice.”

                “Knew you loved it, you kinky perv.”

                “Takes one to know one.”

                “Bitch.”

                “Jerk.”

 

\---

 

That's all folks! Sorry this chapter took so long, I find endings difficult :(.

I wanted to say a really big thankyou to everyone who's left kudos on this, or commented - I know I'm terrible at replying to comments, I just never know what to say apart from grovelling, gushing 'thankyoooouuuu's. Writing this fic has been such an amazing experience, and all the positive feedback has just made me so unbelievably happy, I can't even begin to describe it. Anyhoo, I'm gonna stop rambling and finish off by saying thanks again, and I look forward to writing more stuff!


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